


Shipwrecks

by Arssantos22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Minor Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 56,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arssantos22/pseuds/Arssantos22
Summary: "Find what you love and let it kill you."Pansy goes through life being nothing beyond what her parents expect her to be, stuck in this character by the ropes of the society she was born in to. It feels unescapable. However, some feelings cannot be contained. And soon enough, she won't want to contain them anymore.All of Hermione's knowledge never prepared her to deal with these sort of feelings, not towards her, of all people. But as she fights to ignore and bury them deep within, she'll find out that there are parts of you that can't be killed. And there are shipwrecks that are worth being part of.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 67
Kudos: 301





	1. coming up for air

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to follow the events of the original story, but I'm far from a Harry Potter expert, so there might be some (or several) inconsistencies. I'm sorry for that.  
Also, I can't really get a hang of british slang and expressions, seing as english isn't even my first language lol.  
Anyway, it's my first time. I did my best, and hope you all enjoy it.

1st Chapter - Coming up for air

_ **Pansy’s POV ** _

Waking up was not my favourite part of the day.

Having to abandon the safety of my bed, this private little world of mine where there were no expectations and no standards to meet, was frightful to say the least. Behind these flimsy curtains I didn’t have to be a prime example of a poised pureblood witch, I didn’t have to keep my posture always upright and not let my shoulders crumble under the weight of the family name. In this bed I could relax for a bit, sweep the snarl, disgusted look of my face, could stop preparing the snarky comments I kept at the tip of my tongue for when the opportunity arose. I could drop the mean persona.

At first it was just that, an act, a character I played. Being the mean girl was easy, even fun, and most importantly it kept my parents pleased, pleased to see their daughter was brewing inside herself the hatred they often preached. And to have my parent’s approval, seeing their almost prideful eyes whenever I stated how despicable mudbloods were, seeing them show any breach of affection towards me instead of the usual contempt, was worth it. The guilty pull I felt whenever someone’s face fell at my nasty words palled in comparison to that feeling of elatedness, and in time, the guilty pull diminished into a residual buzz at the back of my mind, a nagging itch I forgot about most often than not. I felt numb, apathy seeping into my days, the motions I had to follow ingrained in me by now.

I wasn’t sure I was pretending anymore. The line that distinguished between the real Pansy and the bitch Pansy was blurred at best, inexistent at worth times. I wasn’t sure anymore if they weren’t the same person…

“Pansy, get your ass out of bed or you’ll be late for breakfast” – Daphne’s voice broke me out of my thoughts and I shook my head forcefully.

“Being fashionably late is a statement, take some notes.” – the Parkinson’s trademark sarcasm already in place, never missing a beat. I heard her huff and turn to head towards the door, her footsteps clicking on the wood floor.

“Well, try not to be too late or you’ll be starving-ly late instead.” – she retorted from further away, the sound of the dorm’s door closing behind her.

I pushed the curtains aside and sat on the bed. There was no reason to dwell on those useless musings. Scowl back in place, I got up and started getting ready for another day of being Slytherin’s Princess, Pansy Parkinson.

_ ** Hermione’s POV ** _

Early autumn’s chill was felt everywhere on days like this, the thick walls of the castle serving as barely any barrier to the unforgiving cold. I shiver slightly, cursing myself for foregoing the extra layer of clothing this morning.

Ron is going on about Quidditch and some new “super” broom he has read about in one of those meaningless sports magazines. He is the only one actually in a good mood or a semblance of such, probably because he is eating right now. Everyone else is detached from their surroundings somehow. Harry has been in an ever fouler mood since his quarrel with Umbridge begun, understandably so, and today was not an exception. Ginny, well, I’m not quite sure what the matter with her is these days, she has been pensive and withdrawn, not as bubbly as before. Perhaps it’s worry over Harry or the fact he doesn’t give her the attention she has craved for years, her adoration going unnoticed only by Harry himself.

“I mean, flying with that thing should be just like gliding through the air! You could probably do it with your eyes closed.” – Ron continues enthusiastically – “You’d catch the snitch in half a second mate!” – he bumps Harry slightly with his elbow. Harry barely responding, a muffled agreement escaping his lips.

I envy Ron and his ability to remain carefree even when things are etic around him. Besides all the problems surrounding Umbridge’s unfair approach to teaching and Voldemort’s return which the Ministry refuses to acknowledge, the mounting work of the fifth year is driving me insane already. With OWLs approaching everything is a whirlwind and I am on full speed in order to keep up with all my studying and homework, and it’s just the first term. Just last night I barely slept trying to perfect that bloody essay for charms after the rounds as Prefect. I just couldn’t find the right words for the conclusion paragraph for Merlin’s sa- O_h hell, I forgot the bloody parchment in the dorms and class starts in – 5 minutes- Bloody hell. _

I hastily get up, inquisitive eyes staring back at me.

“I forgot the Charm’s essay in my dorm, I need to get it before class starts.” – I say as I step out of the long bench. Ron turns pale at my mention of the work, work he most likely forgot about. I pay him no mind as I rush out of the Great Hall. Hearing him in the distance.

“There was an essay for today?” – I shuckle at myself – some things never change – before I am colliding face first with another body.

Parchment and quill scatter to the ground. I rush to pick them up and apologize, only to find Pansy Bloody Parkinson scowling back at me, disgusted look on her face, and the apology dies on my lips.

“Parkinson.” – I mutter in the most unpleasant tone I can muster.

She snatchs her things from my hands rather forcefully and looks at the quill with marked disgust as if it has been tainted by something toxic. Which, I suppose, is what she considers me after all.

“Granger. You filthy specimens can’t even watch where you are going? Now I’ve got _mud_ all over me.” – The pointed disdain in which she says the word almost burns and I flinch imperceptibly (I hope).

Before I walk past her I can see her smirk. She knows her words affect me and she gets pleasure out of it. Sociopath.

As I walk away, anger now searing through me, my only thought is how much I despise that girl.

_ **Pansy’s POV ** _

Christmas vacation this year was not as uneventful as previous years, although not for me. My parents were always either not home or conducting secretive meetings on our dining room, forcing me to the seclusion of my room most of the time. Not that I mind. I don’t have any desire to engage in conversation with most of my parents’ guests, with the exception of Draco whenever he accompanied Lucius. I enjoyed Draco’s company greatly, we always had something to talk about, something to joke about. I trusted him more than anyone else. He is my best friend.

My parents however want him to be more, push me towards it unrelentingly ever since we could both walk. The pressure had gotten worse since we had reached puberty, and somehow all of it had been laid on me, Draco being blissfully free from any pestering. Like my mom always preached_ “Boys are wild creatures, it’s our job to conquer them, make them want us.”_ So the conversation I had with mother one night after one of the meetings in which Lucius had brought Draco was all but surprising.

“Pansy darling, how are things with Draco?” – mother asked rather casually over a light diner, to keep me in shape as she put it.

“Fine, we get along really well as you know. He is my best friend.” – I answered nonchalantly while I ate.

“Just a best friend?” – my mother pierced her lips, the disapproving look on her features accentuated by the slight furrow in her brow.

I knew where she was getting at immediately and groaned internally – “For now yes, but I aim to be more mother, as we have discussed.”

Discussed was a rather generous understatement for the consistent imposition it had been for years now, I knew all the words my mother was going to say, they were the same every time. “_You cannot afford to be less than perfect for him Pansy. Marrying Draco is a privilege, a gift me and your father worked hard to secure for you, for your future. You cannot do anything to ruin this, to taint the Parkinson name_.”

“You need to try harder, aiming is not enough. You are both of an age when relationships form between men and women, you should be together by now. What are you doing wrong? Are you doing what you need to make him happy? You mustn’t be.”

The conversation was always about how I needed to make Draco happy, to make my parents happy. My happiness was never brought up, never even given a second thought. It was as if no one even remembered I had one, I was just a tool to make everyone else happy, to carry the family name forward, smile politely and speak only when spoken too.

“I will try harder mother, I won’t ruin this.”

“You better not.” – she said firmly while she got up and walked out of the dining table, leaving me to finish my dinner alone, with no hunger left.

\--------

I started second term with the same ice cold demeanour and a renewed determination to get Draco’s attention in a more romantic way. And so I often found myself alone with him. Like right now, as he scowled deeply from a not entirely positive match with Gryffindor.

“Hmpf!”

“What’s the matter, Draco dear?” – I placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing, nothing.” – he said dismissively, not one to show weakness, even when the pain was obvious in his movements.

“Did you go to Madame Pomfrey after the match?” – I asked already knowing the answer. Far be it from Slytherin’s Prince to request help, more so after a clash with Harry Bloody Potter in a Quidditch match we lost.

“There was no need, I already told you.”

“Don’t be daft Draco.” – I snapped – “There is no one else here but me, you do not need to play the unbreakable prince. I know you are far from it.” – I approached him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. More gently, I added - “Let me see.”

Draco looked around and after confirming we were in fact alone, he shifted his robes away, lifting his shirt slightly to reveal a nasty purple and black bruise catching most of his left side.

“Ouch dear, this doesn’t look well.” – I say, twisting my face in concern.

“It feels fantastic.” – Draco snarled.

“This is not the time for sarcasm. You need to go to the medical wing.”

“No.” – he said sternly.

“Draco, this really needs to get checked out. Please.”

“I won’t go, Pansy. That is final. I won’t show weakness because of that twit Potter.” – I knew from his tone that there was no convincing him right now. – “Besides, this will heal itself. Malfoys have impeccable physical characteristics.”

I rolled my eyes at the typical egotistical remark to mask any fragility on his part. “Promise me that if that doesn’t look better in a week, you’ll go to Madame Promfey.”

“Yes, Pansy. I promise.” – I could tell he was being less than truthful but decided not to push the subject for now.

\--------

During the following week I occupied most of my free time with research, securing an almost a special place in the healing session of the library.

A grimace had taken a permanent location in Draco’s face, the pain apparently not having diminished. It hadn’t stopped him from doing anything, but the way he doubled over himself when we were alone was all telling. That was the reason I had buried myself in books trying to find and perfect a spell to heal him.

Unfortunately it had led to more encounters with Granger than I would’ve liked. Usually I would have jumped at every chance to tease the muggleborn, however I had more pressing matters in hands and her scowl being directed at me was a distraction I could not afford, not when I was getting ready to heal my future husband.

On her end, she seemed to grow more aggravated each time our paths crossed in a space I recognise had been her safe place before.

“Do you have a problem Granger?” – I snapped my eyes from the book I was currently reading to face her, my gaze sharp.

“I’m just wondering what on Merlin’s name you are doing here, Parkinson. You don’t strike me as the studious type, unless you are researching new ways to be an insufferable cunt.”

Hearing her say that word sent a jolt through me I couldn’t quit place, but it was fast drowned underneath the rage and confusion. The sort of aggressive language was, to say the least, uncharacteristic of her.

“You know nothing about me.” – my voice was dangerous, low.

“I know enough. You are merely a bully, whose goal in life is to get Malfoy to look at her for more than 5 seconds, marry him and have lovely old devils for children.”

The rage inside me was burning now. That was not who I was. She knew nothing. They knew nothing about me, about Draco. About what I was meant to be, what my future was meant to be. The rage made me feel alive like I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was as if all of my insides were set ablaze. A monumental fire burning my every cell. Who would’ve known that being insulted by Hermione Granger could feel so invigorating.

“You lot think you are all high and mighty, righteous and honourable and brave. But look at you making the same judgemental remarks you censor me for. We all have hate inside us, some of us just are not hypocrites about it.”

I left seething, leaving Granger with her mouth agape behind me. The rage inside me so all consuming I was nearly shaking. But somehow, I felt alive. More alive than I ever did in years. Like if her hatred, the flame in her eyes and the response it incited in me had awoken a long sleeping part of me. The part that felt things, not just performed task after task in order to reach a goal.

I couldn’t understand it nor begin to rationalize it before I arrived at Slytherin’s dungeons, finding Draco sitting in one of the sofas, alone, reading a book. His eyebrows were pursed and he hissed when he tried to readjust himself.

“I take it it’s not better.”

He looked up to see me standing there, a slight regret gracing his features for showing weakness in front of me.

“It’s fine.”

“Obviously it is not, Draco. I may be a lot of things but daft I am not. You are suffering.” He didn’t respond this time, redirecting his attention to his book. He knew denying would be useless. “It’s been a week Draco.”

“I am aware.” – he said simply. – “My injury as not affected my ability to count the days.”

“You know what I meant, you promised me something.”

“Pansy, no. I’m not going.”

“Merlin, your stubbornness is infuriating.” – I huff and sit next to him. – “Lift your shirt.”

He looks scandalized, eyes wide. As if I have just made the most inappropriate proposition to him.

“Excuse me?” – he almost shrieks.

“Come on you git, I am not going to molest you. I have been reading up in healing spells, let me try to help you.”

He looked suspicious but conceited, lifting his shirt slightly. Revealing a bruise looking just as nasty or perhaps worse than last time.

“That is why you have been spending so much time in the library then. Do try to not hex any part of my body off, will you.”

“I’ll do my best.” – I said before concentrating on my wand and on the task at hand. After a few seconds of concentration I uttered the spell with a flick of my wand. At first nothing happened, but after a minute or so the odd coloration began to disappear, giving place to the delicate marble complexion.

Draco moved his arm around slowly, and then shifted from side to side, testing the waters. His face was surprised and positively delighted.

“Pans! It doesn’t hurt anymore!” – he was so excited it was heart-warming. – “You are absolutely amazing.”

His hand cupped my cheek and he pulled me towards him, his lips covering mine. The kiss was hard and fast over, clearly fueled by his euphoria. His lips were chapped and his hand calloused against my skin.

When he pulled away he a wide grin sat on his face, however something told me it had more to do with being cured than with having kissed me.

“Just in time to get in shape for the next game, bloody brilliant! I need to go fly now.” – He got up and headed towards the door. – “Thanks again Pans, I really owe you this time.”

I stood there, a strange feeling running through my body.

It had happened. Draco had kissed me. This was the thing I had wanted most for the past two years, ever since my mom first lectured me about the importance of securing Draco Malfoy’s affection. This was what I had worked for, the first step of the ultimate goal. It should’ve been a rejoicing moment. And still I felt nothing. Just a blank, bland apathy coursing through my veins.

My heart was not beating faster, there were no insects on my stomach, there was no trembling excitement, there were no new stars beneath my eyelids.

It hadn’t been unpleasant or anything of the sort. It had just been mundane. Another task.

That disappointed me far more than I could explain, for I had hoped to feel something, anything beyond this apathy, and now it became just the first step on a string of boxes I should check to accomplish my goal. A goal that wasn’t quite mine, just like it was never my happiness.

After that day Draco continued to kiss me sporadically, never really going further than a slightly tongue contact, never making the butterflies in my stomach take flight, the sky behind my eyelids remaining pitch black.

It made my mother the most pleased however, going as far as to send me new robes to “_make sure I looked as delightful for dear Draco as possible_”. He didn’t pay that much mind when I did wear them, throwing a casual “You look gorgeous Pans.” my way, his attention gone as swiftly as it came.

The slow, almost nonexistent progress in my relationship with Draco worried me purely on a practical level. I didn’t yearn for physical intimacy with him, even if I did realize it is necessary. However the fact he didn’t procure it, not with me or with anyone else (as far as I am aware), tranquilized me as much as it concerned me, making me wonder if I should take the initiative, even if that could be considered an unladylike thing to do.

It was a toss honestly. On one side I felt I needed to get closer to the boy I was supposed to marry one day, on the other hand I don’t want my relationship with my best friend to change substantially, at least not for now.

I already came to the conclusion I didn’t love Draco, not in a romantic way at least. However, I cared deeply for him, felt comfortable around him, I was more like myself around him than around anyone else (even if I was not my truest self, but that was off limits). So I think marrying your best friend is a rather good arrangement, considering. After all, as mother so classily placed it, _Love is merely something poor people invented, in order to feel better about not having money_ or, just as good, _Love is merely something muggles invented, those of us who have magic need nothing of the sort. _

There was something different about my everyday interactions though. Something besides the pursuit of my relationship with Draco, OWLs preparation and appeasing Umbridge. And that something was Hermione Granger.

That moment in the library had haunted me for weeks, when every inch of me came alive under her rage, and since then she has been the fuse and the powder, the anger in her eyes when I insult her the torch that starts the forest fire. The fervent hatred she throws my away makes me feel alive each and every time, even if her comments have never reached the point they did in the library.

The Inquisitorial Squad was a golden opportunity to obtain this guilty pleasure without arousing the suspicion a continuous attack targeted solely on Granger might, and I jumped on it. The extra closeness to Draco and my parents’ approval were added bonus.

Messing with Granger made me feel exhilaration with a twinge of guilt. It was barely noticeable at first, just like with everybody else the empathic part of myself felt numb, but with time that feeling reared its ugly head in the midst of my ocean of apathy. Nowadays I felt equal parts exhilarated and guilty, the second feeling quite more unwelcome than the first. An attenuating factor however, was the fact that it was increasingly hard to get a rise out of her. After that incident on the library when she appeared to lose control over her polite demeanor, she seemed to keep herself permanently in check. She ignored most of my comments. Even my most creative jabs would get only a scowl in response sometimes. It frustrated me to no end, but the times she actually responded were worth it. So I kept pushing, and pushing and pushing.

She hated me more now, I could tell, even if she responded less and less to my provocations. The way her eye twitched when I teased her, the way she clenched her hands, closing them into fists, the vein that popped in her delicate neck, the change of her complexion to match that Weasel’s hair more closely, they were all tell-tale signs of the anger sweeping through her. And whenever she let that anger out and the fire overtook her orbs, shadowing any other expression on her gaze, I relished in it.

Those were the moments I lived for these days, not for Draco’s kisses or for my mother’s praises or for Umbridge’s approval. For everything else it was merely a matter of existing, for those fervent disputes with Hermione Granger, I lived.

\--------

They had gone and faced off against Death Eaters, bloody Death Eaters! Those insufferably noble, overachievers, with a gigantic hero complex and apparently zero regard for their lives. The Weasels and the Potter Scar-head and that loony girl and all those other crazy, uninteresting excuses for wizarding students, I could not give two fucks about. But she went too, she went and almost got herself killed and I was, I am, beyond infuriated. My chest tighten and my heart felt claustrophobic. If I had allowed myself to consider my feelings I probably would have realized I felt afraid. There had been genuine fear gripping me from the inside out. If she died I would stop feeling entirely, no more lava hot anger to melt my icy façade, no more glares to pierce straight through me and unwind me completely. I would be left only a bottomless pit of nothing, condemned to a full body numbness for the rest of my days.

The desperation that took over me at that thought spurred me right now. I had seen her getting to the Great Hall this morning, I knew she was alive and, from what I could tell, unscathed, but I needed more. I needed to know I could still feel, that her glare was still there, that they hadn’t broken something inside her.

That was all I was thinking while I marched inside the bathroom I had seen her and girl-Weasley enter. Weasley was at the sink washing her hands, Hermione nowhere in sight, most likely inside a stall. I knew by now that targeting her friends was the most certain way to get her to unleash her anger, so I prepared to play my part.

“You’re really all still alive, uh? I was hoping that at least your little boyfriend wouldn’t be soiling my sight anymore.” – she turned to me, a vicious expression in her eyes – “Or you Weasley, you were only really good for something when He used you too terrorize the school. Apart from that… but apparently the Death Eaters are fairly incapable if they can’t even take care of a bunch of scrawny teenagers.”

I could see her trembling a bit, anger cursing through her. Still, no sign of the person I intended to find, so I pressed on.

“It’s not as if anybody'd miss you anyway. Potter barely knows you exist and your parents have hundred more dirty redheads to care for. Maybe only that crazy friend of yours, Loony Lovegood isn’t it? Nobody else would talk to her otherwise.” – I was being more vicious than usual, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

She snarled at me then and practically growled:

“Don’t call her that, her name is Luna.”

That is what she picks to retort to out of all that? Interesting.

“Whatever.” – I say dismissively – “If I didn’t know you had a ridiculous unrequited crush on Scar-head, I’d say you might have the hots for the crazy girl with the way you defend her.”

Tears were prickling at her eyes, she was shaking in earnest now. Maybe I struck a nerve. As I prepared to dig my finger into the wound and twist forcefully, a door flew open with such force it almost broke out of its hinges.

“Enough!” – screamed Hermione. Finally. Relief flooded through me. She quieted her voice to address her friend – “Ginny, don’t listen to this excuse of a person. Go to the dorm, I’ll meet you there.”

Weasley hesitated for a moment, unsure of leaving the older girl alone with me, but ended up following Hermione’s directions and turning to walk out.

Hermione turned to me again, the fire in her eyes burning in a way I had never witnessed before. I guess the confrontation didn’t put out the inferno, it only made it burn hotter.

“You!” – She pointed at me in an accusatory manner and marched in large powerful steps towards where I stood, bewildered inside, but with my indifference mask carefully in place – “You disgusting, spiteful person. I’d rather have actual mud for blood than be you.” – She got closer with every word – “You hurt people, good people, because on the inside you know they have something you’ll never have. People who actually care about them.” - She was in my personal space now, so threatening, so close I could not breathe. – “People that love them. You have no idea what that is, do you? Of course you don’t. No one ever loved you.” – My lungs would not work, all my chest ignited and not in the usual exhilarated way, instead in a cutting, painful way. As if her words were a Crucio curse descending upon me. – “And no one ever will.”

I don’t know what pushed my body forward. I was sure that I was not in control of my muscles, of my bones, of my nerves, of anything. I was not even aware of what was happening until my lips made contact with hers. One moment this girl was cutting me open with her words, her presence, her fire and the next my lips were crashing against hers with the force of all five oceans colliding with the shore in a windy day. My hands gripped her face in each side, anchoring myself for dear life against the waves that washed over me. Her scent evolved me all around, and I could breathe again, maybe for the first time ever.


	2. submerging in a state of panic

**2nd Chapter - **submerging in a state of panic

**Hermione’s POV**

I was so angry. 

I was shaking, the anger coursing through me like electric energy, something too muggle for Pansy Parkinson to recognise, something as muggle as I am. I felt like a storm had been unleashed and I surged forward, attacking like a lion focused solely on its prey.

How dare this venomous snake say those things to Ginny, those hurtful, false things? Ginny had done nothing to her, none of us did, but after what had happened to them, what they had just been through, to have someone who has no idea what it had been like, come and say stuff like that and to Ginny. Ginny, who had withstood something at 11 years old that would have broken any grown adult, who still retained her strength, her kindness, her faith in humankind, in what was good, despite having been possessed by pure evil. When I was at the receiving end of Parkinson’s insults I took it with a grain of salt. I had learned to ignore them. The pain those words had caused in the beginning was enough to last me all my life in matters of discrimination, not something my innocent 11 year old self had even knew existed, much less prepared for, but battered skin grows thicker after scaring, and by now my skin was an armour and my brain wasted no time processing petty verbal abuses when there was Voldemort to worry about. But when she was hurting someone I cared about I couldn’t control myself, like right now.

The last rational part of my brain was all that was stopping me from hexing her down and leave her to suffer. Instead I could feel the hatred spewing out of my mouth, almost metallic in taste. I could barely register the words, could not recognised the venom they were charged with. Regret would surely haunt me later on, I was not the kind of person that hurt someone with words that cut deeper than knives, that reached to cause pain in places not even magic could reach. And not even Pansy Parkinson deserved to be the target of this words. But right now all I wanted was to hurt her, bad.

I barely had time to draw breath after finishing my rant before being shocked by the collision of her mouth against mine, her fingers gripping me with desperation. She was kissing me. Pansy Parkinson was kissing me.

I stood rooted to the spot, my every fibre paralyzed, the commands to my movements stuck somewhere in my short-circuited brain. My eyes were open wide, staring at her long eyelashes, her eyes were closed in a stark contrast.

Moments later, moments that had dragged with the speed of a rotation around the sun, she pulled away, probably coming to her senses.

Shock was written all over her face as if she couldn’t believe her actions, as if she hadn’t been the one in control of her motor functions, if somebody else had made her do it. I wondered if that was what had occurred. It certainly would make more sense for Parkinson to be underneath the influence of the Imperius curse than to kiss me out of her own volition. That sounded preposterous. 

I waited for her reaction, still unmoving.

“This never happened Granger. I’ll kill you if you tell a soul, so help me Salazar.” – she hissed in a manner I am sure was intended to sound threatening but sounded only frightened, then went tripping over herself as she got away.

It took me a couple more moments to be able to move. 

My lips tingle, the patches of skin where her fingers had grasped me burned, my brain was going into overdrive trying to analyse what on earth had just happened. 

I pinched myself slightly on the arm to make sure this had not been a dream, or a nightmare, but I fast concluded that it had been reality. Pansy Parkinson had just snogged me.  _ Well, fuck. _

\--------

A full blown interrogation erupted around me when I entered the Gryfindor’s Common Room, Harry and Ron having caught wind of the incident by a distressed Ginny.

“I am gonna hex that bitch so hard her snake skin will fall off.” – Ron was steaming – “Mum and dad taught me never to hit a girl, but for her I am sure I can make a exception.”

His protectiveness, even if at times fairly annoying, was also somewhat endearing. Now however, I just wanted to drop the subject and stop myself from thinking of Parkinson all together.

“That is not necessary Ron. I took care of it. In addition I would really not appreciate if you did hit a girl, her or any other.”

He looked a bit offended that I was not swooning at his willingness to defend my honor like a prince charming. 

“But ‘Mione, you look really put off. At least tell us what she did!”

“I can't help but agree with Ron” – Harry added carefully, his voice much more subdued – “You seem upset.”

They would not drop it unless I gave them something, I needed to appease them somehow if I wanted to put the issue to rest.

“Boys, you have checked me for injuries at least three times, and every time came to the conclusion that I was unscathed.” – I pointed out, trying not to sound too exasperated – “She just rattled me, you know how Parkinson is.”

They didn’t look convinced, but dropped it miraculously, Ron only adding:

“Next time you should really hex her ‘Mione, maybe Ginny can teach you that Bat-bogeyd hex she likes so much.”

I had no intention to ask Ginny to teach me any hex nor to use it on Parkinson, but I nodded to satisfy Ron anyway and it seemed to work.

I remained aloof throughout the course of the night, unable to decide if her absence at dinner had been a relief or if it aggravated my mood. I was the recipient of many worried glances from Harry and Ron, doing my best to engage in conversation and smile openly to quench their worries. It worked well enough that they didn’t pester me about it again, and when I excused myself from the table to go studying they relaxed, happy to see I was still myself.

Ginny however was down the entire meal, no doubt still bothered by what she had been told. I noted that, regretfully, with the events that had followed after she left, I had not yet checked up on her and made a mental note to do so as soon as I got the chance. The opportunity presented itself before we went to bed, when I caught her exiting the bathroom.

“Hey Ginny, I’m sorry I didn’t even asked how you were doing.” – I touched her arm lightly – “All she said was a lie, you know that. She only wanted to hurt you.”

“S’fine ‘Mione. I know, I know.” – she answered, giving me a little smile – “And thank you for defending me, you didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense. You got nothing to thank me for.” – I beam at her sincerely, and I remember something else before I leave – “And Harry will see it too, that you two should be together. I think he already kinda does, even if he’s not aware, that oblivious fool.”

She shot me a sad smile before casting her eyes downwards.

“Not so sure about that ‘Mione.” – And before I could jump in to assure her, she muttered almost inaudibly – “Not sure if I want it anymore either.”

I was about to ask her what she had meant by that when a group of uproarious fourth years approached us, and in the moment my attention had slipped to them Ginny had vanished, leaving me without a chance to probe further. I would have to ask her later.

That night’s sleep reached me late and only due to complete physical exhaustion, because my mind would not stop drifting to the afternoon’s events. My mind was swimming with question marks, screaming for answers that would not come. 

Why had she done it? Why had I not told my friends about it? And, most importantly, why didn’t I felt completely and utterly repulsed by it?

**Pansy’s POV**

I felt beyond mortified. After running from the bathroom as fast as I could I had crawled inside my bed and refused to leave, feigning stomach sickness to justify skipping dinner. Daphne came to check on me with a sympathetic smile and a polite get-well message from Draco. His name made me cringe inwardly even more and I dismissed her as fast and as politely as I could. Her desire to stay not being particularly grand either.

In the place of the usual numbness, an overwhelming, chilling panic was taking over me.

What on Salazar’s name propelled me to do  _ that _ ? To kiss Hermione Granger?! Not only a woman (as if that, alone, wasn’t enough of a disgrace) but a Mudblood. If anyone knew I would be disowned and disgraced, ostracized from my community, a pariah to my family and friends, a blood traitor dyke. The people that already hated me would now add disgust to the mix, and after I was disgraced would lose every reason to fear me, almost certainly turning on me. The people that interacted with me, tolerated me, would despise me and cut me from their lives like a broken wand. 

She was right, no one cared enough for me to stand by my side after such scandal. Perhaps if it had been something else Draco might, but in this matter and with his family heritage he had too much to lose, high expectations were placed on him as well and I understood that he would not stay even if he desired to do so. What I doubted, the shame of his girlfriend being a carpet-muncher too great.

This was my end, I knew it, I could feel it in my very bones. How ironic, I was going to fall at the lips of the girl I had verbally tortured for the past five years, it was poetic justice. My death sentence had been signed by the only person that could make me feel alive. 

She had no reason not to tell everyone. I would if I were her. And even if she was the most honourable person in the wizarding world, she would not show such kindness to her bully. I was aware I did not deserve it.

\--------

Sleep evaded me completely that night, the hours dragging by slowly and torturously. I ondulated between three states: crying quietly, quelling the successive panic attacks and barely stopping myself from marching to Gryfindor’s dorm and smothering her in her sleep. It would’ve been fruitless almost certainly, she was bound to have already told somebody.

I had been surprised when I wasn’t banished from Slytherin’s dungeon promptly after dinner by a furious, repulsed group of roommates, but chalked it up to the conversation not having reached them yet. In the morning it would be different.

The sun rose in the horizon, and with it so did the life in the dorm. I perked my ears to listen to any talk about yesterday. There was nothing, no insults and no murmurs, just usual morning chat. I felt no more calm though, I was sure Gryfindors at the very least would know and from them to spread to the whole school it was just a matter of time.

Reluctantly I got up, knowing it was unavoidable to have Daphne come check up on me and that if I tried to pretend sickness again she would make me go to Madame Pomfrey’s. Even if the isolation of the medical wing sounded heavenly, I knew it would not solve anything in the long run. Besides I needed to eat, it had been roughly 18 hours since my last meal and my stomach had made its’ permanent residence stuck to my vertebrae. 

My routine in the dorm went without incident, the forced question about my well-being thrown my way occasionally and answered just as nonchalantly.

The way to the Great Hall was filled with an ever growing amount of dread and I almost fled to the bathroom in order to expel all of my stomach’s contents before I realized I had nothing to expel.

When we got to the door my heart was hammering in a manner that resembled a heart attack and for a second I thought I was going to pass out and perish before opening the door. At my weird state, Daphne, who stood by my side, sent me a questioning glance.

“Hunger.” – I muttered in response, a convincing excuse for my paleness and odd jittery behaviour.

Inside everything was… surprisingly normal. Chatting was coming from every table, the clacking of the silverware on the plates offering the usual background symphony. No one was staring at me more than normal, there was no taunting, no insults, no exclusion, nothing. I was dumbfounded.

Suspiciously I approached the Slytherin’s table, Draco rising from his sit to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Are you feeling better, my dear?” – his voice was soft and concerned, his chivalry evident.

I nodded at Draco absently, gifting him a small thankful smile, and sat down beside him. Everything around me progressed as any other morning, nothing amiss, no huge gossip flying around. I could not comprehend it, she hadn’t said anything?

Across the table I caught her eyes. She was looking at me with an unreadable expression, but one that told me she hadn’t said anything to anyone and gave me a feeling she was not going to.

Relief poured into me, flooding every corner. The small hint of curiosity as to why drowning in amidst it.

Staring at her I nodded my head once trying to convey a thank you with my movement, features uncharacteristically void of hatred or disgust. She nodded back just slightly and turned back to her friends, dictating the end to our small interaction. After staring at her for a beat longer I followed her lead, chatting with my friends more enthusiastically than I had in years. So relieved that, somehow, I still had people to talk to.

** _Hermione’s POV_ **

My mind had been sharply focused on OWLs since the battle, not affording to lose any preparation time as I already needed to make up for the delay all the dark events had caused in my studies. I studied with Harry and Ron sometimes, but usually preferred to be alone since that offered fewer distractions.

The incident with Parkinson was not at the forefront of my mind, but to my great dismay still made the odd (or frequent, but really, who was counting) appearance in my thoughts. In order to stop it from driving me insane and interfering with my studies I rationalised that the only reason it kept popping up on my mind was the fact that it had been such an abhorrent situation, which made so little sense, that left me with quite a lot of questions regarding Parkinson’s motives. 

That was it, it was all about wanting to understand her side of the action.

At first, I concluded that it didn’t make much sense for it to have been a ploy to humiliate me in public, a suspicion confirmed by both her obvious relief the morning after when she realized I hadn’t told anyone and the fact that the other shoe never dropped. But the suspicion of such was not banned from my mind entirely. Perhaps it had been a ploy to mess with my head, which sounded much more believable and probable than the action having no menacing intention behind it. And if I was being honest with myself I had to, begrudgingly, admit that it was working. That fact infuriated me almost as much as not having an answer to the question previously presented: “Why?”. The idea that it might have been a genuine impulse without any malice was a hypothesis I discarded immediately, because it was dependent on assumptions that were just plain ridiculous, like the fact that Pansy Parkinson had wanted to actually kiss me.

Like I said, ridiculous.

I was adamant to not let all this musing interfere with my OWLs, and I succeeded, obtaining a perfect score in all of them.

I had not been coined The Brightest Witch of My Age for nothing after all.

\--------

We were all walking towards the train, preparing to start our summer vacations. The customary enthusiasm was not as effusive as past years, the looming cloud of darkness over our heads not letting us forget or relax. Ron, always a dreamer at heart, even if all of us were to afraid to dream these days, never stopped himself from doing so. He was a breeze of fresh air in this stagnant atmosphere.

“And I’m going down to the beach, show around this ginger candy. Maybe even getting a little tan.” – Ron was stating all of the things he planned to do this summer. In the end he would probably end up risking two items of the vast list, but the excitement of making plans almost compensated the fact that they would never come to be.

“More like getting cancer from sunburn with your paleness.” – Harry joked, Ron hitting him softly in the arm – “I’m kidding mate. Well – sort of. Put on some sunscreen please.” – He paused before continuing, a sadness intertwining with his words now – “I wish I was going to the beach too.”

“You should totally come mate!” – Ron had a spontaneous burst of enthusiasm at that prospect. – “Better yet! You should spend the entire summer on The Burrow, that’d be freaking awesome!”

Harry smiled genuinely at him, as if he wanted to accept the proposition instantly. We all knew that it wasn’t really an option for him, but still, it was good to dream.

“You know I can’t, but I’ll be there before the end of the summer to beat your ass in Quidditch, yeah mate?”

“Keep dreaming, you twat. But we’ll be awaiting you.” – Ron said teasingly, turning to me after – “Hermione, you will be there too, right?” – He looked at me hopefully. There was a twinkle in his eyes and he looked almost nervous.

The sight was off-putting and, perhaps, I would’ve put some more thought into it if not for a flash of raven-hair that entered my field of vision and captured my attention instantly. I absently responded to Ron with an agreement and tried to zoom into Parkinson.

My contact with the girl had been limited, for the lack of a better word. We frequented the Great Hall in similar schedules like most students, and there had been the occasional intersection in the hallways, but as to actual interactions they simply didn’t exist. She stopped acknowledging me even, which was not a novelty by itself, as she hadn’t exactly greeted me before. 

However she hasn’t insult me since that day, and that is certainly a development. Furthermore, none of us has been the butt of a trademark Pansy Parkinson’s jab since that afternoon, her mouth eerily quiet, her demeanour much less threatening. 

Do not get me wrong, I am thankful for the break, we all deserved it, but also I am intrigued and still highly suspicious of the intentions behind her actions. The idea that it was motivated by some feeling beside malice was, still, ludicrous. I felt positive it was some kind of ruse to humiliate me or torture me mentally, and this odd behaviour was an instrumental part of the plan, just a trick to deceive me and lead me to let down my guard. I was determined to not give her the pleasure and with that resolution strong in my mind I turned back to my friends and banished all thoughts snake related out of my mind.


	3. Autumn

**3rd Chapter **\- Autumn

** _Pansy’s POV_ **

Brown orbs, brown strands of hair, brown all around me, evolving me like autumn was blooming and I was just another leaf falling aimlessly through the air. I woke up with a gasp, however the startle was fast gone, having her as the main character starring in my nightly reveries had become customary by then. 

_ Hermione _ .

Every night I woke up with the name on my lips, like a now permanent haunting of the once unoccupied hallways of my mind. From the moment I had crashed my lips against hers I had passed the point of no return, I was aware of it now. The touch of those delicate rosy blossoms had unleashed within me a flood I could no longer contain, it was the flood of all I yearned for and never had the courage of even conjuring in a rational thought, they were the enraged waters of a river I had confined to the depths of my being, now screaming for freedom. A cry so frantic and deafening I could not ignore it even if I tried. A thunderous loop repetition of the same undeniable truth: I like women. I like one woman in particular. I like Hermione Granger. The words left a path of inflammation behind them as I tested them around my mind. It was insane at best, and I almost let out an ironic laugh at the thought of what people would say if they knew. They would scoff at it, tell me it was a rather untasteful joke and to stop the mockery, that it was not proper for ladies to engage in such crude, sordid jokes. If I was to insist on it they would render me insane and have me institutionalized or at least imprisoned at home to hide away from society and to receive some sort of magical exorcism. 

A sudden sickness overtook me and I had to run to my toilet, dry heaving for a moment before coming to sit on the cold ground, leaning my weight on the marble toilet. I forgot I had not eaten last evening. My appetite was dreadfully low, bordering on inexistent and since my parents were not home most of the time, not even my elf Trina’s constant pestering could prevent missed meals.

A knock on the door caught my attention, it was timid but determined, made by a small hand. Most likely Trina coming to check on me.

“Yes?” – I offered, my voice emotionless just in case my malnurtured mind was playing tricks on me and it was my mother on the other side.

“Is everything alright miss?” – Trina’s voice swam through the door and I let out a breath at the confirmation of my suspicions.

“Yes Trina, I was just a bit indisposed.”

“Miss Pansy must eat. Miss Pansy has not been eating. Trina is going to make miss Pansy breakfast now.” – Trina sounds worried and that warms my heart, in a way. She must be the only inhabitant of this household to care for my well-being. She has been with me since I was born and always went out of her way to assure I was okay, even if sometimes it warranted her harsh reprehensions from my parents.

Even if I had been taught from birth that house elfs were merely slaves that deserved no compassion from us, merely objects to be use to our benefit and according to our needs and whims, I could never see Trina in that light, she had been my main caretaker and I would always hold her in a special place on my heart.

“Miss?” – I had forgotten that Trina would probably be waiting for my answer, never one to over-step my final desires or commands.

“Breakfast would be lovely, Trina. I will be down to the kitchen in a moment.”

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting alone at the dining hall table, a banquet in front of me with more food than I could eat in an entire day, let alone one single meal. Trina was pretending to clean the furniture around the room, but I could see she was only keeping an eye on me, making sure I was indeed eating and not just making the food magically vanish.

A stray thought pushed through the chaos, a question that had been tugging relentlessly at the corners of my mind. The search for a model, an indication I am not just sick with a great affliction, that I am not the only one. 

“Trina, did you know my uncle Robert?”

She lets out an outraged yelp at the mention of the name, our family’s own He who must not be named, and rushes to my side.

“That is a forbidden name miss Pansy, miss must not say it.” – She whispered urgently, her small eyes darting around rapidly to make sure we were alone.

“My parents are not home and no one else is around to hear.” – the fear in Trina’s eyes didn’t diminish at my words, her lips tightly pursed in a look of stubborn determination. I knew I had to try another approach if I wanted her to talk to me. – “Please Trina, I barely remember him. I don’t want to forget completely. Could you please just tell me a bit about him?”

I could see her debating with herself, wanting to please her master but afraid to cause herself and, more importantly, me any harm. She took my hand and lead me to my room quietly, and I knew I was going to get my way. Once we arrived she closed the door and strolled through the room and the adjacent toilet to make sure we were alone.

“Mister Robert was a very nice man. Everybody says he was very bad and filthy, but Trina didn’t think so, he was very kind to Trina, very kind.”

“Was he sad often Trina? Before he left, I mean.”

“He was sad sometimes, Trina thinks. He was always very quiet, but very kind. He and Mister Parkinson screamed very loud with each other sometimes, but Mister Robert was never bad."

A very nice man was a description that fit perfectly with the contours of the image I had created in my mind, with the bits and pieces of him I had left.

"What happened that made him leave?" 

My questions were not without aim, I was just trying to direct the conversation for the confirmation I so desperately needed.

"One day Mister Robert came home really happy, he smiled very big all the time. He brought home mister Joseph a few times. They looked very happy, but Mister Parkinson didn’t like him very much.”

“Do you know why Trina?” – I place the question carefully.

“Mister Parkinson just kept saying it wasn’t right, it wasn’t natural. That it was a shame. One day Mister Parkinson caught mister Robert and mister Joseph together and he did all the bad things he said he would, and since then Mister Robert never came around anymore and everyone started to pretend like he didn’t exist anymore.” – Trina finished, a mournful look adorning her features.

I was only 4 years old at the time the storm hit the family, barely old enough to express myself in full coherent sentences, involved by the naive haze of childhood where evil was not yet a cemented notion and all was good and colourful and magical. My parents were still amazed by the fact of having brought a piece of them into the world, proud to secure at least another Parkinson generation. They still had the time and the will to love me, even if the love was distant and cold in their own trademark way. Uncle Roby, as I had took to call him since I started to form words, was one of my favourite playmates, a main character in my life at the time. He was the most affectionate member of my family, his love and adoration always unbound, never confining himself to the way society deemed men’s feelings as a weakness. Proud of his sensibility, unapologetic in his manners and in the tide of unbridled passion he always exuded in passage. These weren’t the words I would’ve used at the time, my observational skills still somewhat underdeveloped considering the young age. I thought he was nice, and affectionate, and always smelled like the fields in a cosy warm spring morning. He was patient and always thought my fantasy ideas were marvellous and never stupid, he would never talk down to me or disregard my opinion just because I was a child. But now, the flashes of him I had kept dearly in my memory, allowed me to conjure this more mature and structured description.

When my mother sat me down and in curt and vague words told me that uncle Robert had done something very bad and shameful to our family, and he was now gone and should never be mentioned again, I was, to say the very least, confused. I fired questions rapidly: What had he done? Why? Where had he gone? I was shot down with strict and short answers that mostly just told me that it was not my concern and that I wouldn’t understand either way. My heart was anxious to insist, to know, an almost overpowering urge to press forward propelling the words in a rapid torrent from my brain to the tip of my tongue, but the stern look on my mothers’ face halted the force within me like a dam. It was not open to discussion, I had been given all the information I was going to get and it would never be discussed again.

In time I gathered a better understanding of what had happened, mostly from menacing comments stemming from outsiders who wished for nothing but for the worse to become on the Parkinson family. And even if the portrait that I had been painted of my uncle was inherently bad and derogative, I could never spoil the image of that loving, sweet man who had held me so carefully and made me feel like more than the next barer of the family name.

Now, I saw him in an even brighter light, I saw his courage to stand against the violence of the world in order to be himself and to stay with whom he loved, he stood tall even in shame and never bowed, never bended, never broke. I yearned for the same strength, desired to be dotted of the same presence of spirit, the same unwillingness to accept anything else but the fair treatment I deserved. But in this moment I felt so empty, so unhinged, so broken in shreds that that future seemed like a distant, unattainable dream.

  
\--------

The end of the summer brought no closure to the inner-turmoil that wreaked havoc in me since that day in may. The certainties of my proclivities had not vanished nor diminished in any way, if anything they had cemented in my heart and mind with an iron grip so firm that the mere thought of removing them made me cringe with the unfelt feeling of flesh tearing from bone.

However, the surer I grew in my identity within myself, the more insecure and terrified I became concerning my place in the outside world. I felt misplaced, detached from everyone else around me, an alien being among humans, a muggle among wizards.

My future was a picture of uncertainty where before was a defined path and the aimlessness filled me with an anxiety so overwhelming, sometimes I struggled to breathe, like my lungs were filled with liquid and the tsunami reached my throat accompanied by aftershocks from the earthquake in my chest. I didn’t see a place for me in the world I’ve known all my life, however the only thing I knew for sure was that living hiding myself within my walls, keeping up a façade of someone I was not, was not an option anymore, I’d never be able to live with myself like that. That notion put an extra strain in my interaction with my parents, a relationship built upon tension in the first place.

A knock rang through my room, reverberating through the old, imposing walls of this manor.

“Yes?” – my voice even, never betraying the uneasiness inside.

The door cracked open and my mothers’ figure appeared in the entrance of my room.

“Hello, mother.”

“Pansy, darling, you look paler than usual. You really ought to get out of this room from time to time, it has been such a lovely summer.”

This lovely summer, had counted with only a handful of sunny days and a contrasting alarming (even for Britain) amount of cloudy, rainy periods that lasted weeks at times. It was one of those things, usually chalked up to coincidence, but for those who looked closely, who believed in no such things, it was impossible to overlook the way the universe sometimes warns us of the things to come. It was a warning of the darkness to come, a darkness much greater than black clouds and pouring rain, a darkness that threatened to swallow whole the world as we know it.

That was the reason my mother qualified this summer as lovely. It was the beginning of a new era, an era where, according to my parents, we would be “return to our lawful place at the top”.

I found it made the summer more dreadful than ever.

“Yes mother, I’ll make sure to do so. I’ve just been feeling a bit under the weather this past few weeks. It must be the warm weather mixed with the rain, I am not accustomed to it.”

“Have you sought out Healer Fredinson?” – I had to control myself not to show the amusement in my face at the mention of our old family Healer, and the thought of what remedy he would suggest for my affliction – “As a respectful young witch from a noble family you have no necessity of bearing any kind of infirmity for long periods of time, darling.” – as if we were exempt from illness due to our blood statues, the idiocy.

“In any case. I am heading out to visit some friends and I was wondering if you would like to accompany me. If you are feeling well enough that is.”

There was no need for her to elaborate for me to know she was referring to the Malfoys. And if it was anyone else, I would find it absolutely dreadful, but the idea of seeing Draco made my chest light up. A much needed breath of fresh air.

“I would love to.”

“Very well.” – she retorted in a pleased tone – “We leave in half an hour. Make sure to look more presentable by then. We are going to Malfoy Manor.”

She turned to leave without waiting for an answer. The bite of her last words barely registering above the sudden burst of happiness of seeing my best friend again. The fact we were, for all intents and purposes, dating not even coming to mind.

An hour and all the obligatory pleasantries later I found myself next to Draco, strolling leisurely through the gardens of Malfoy Manor. We walked in a comfortable, companionable silence. The kind of silence that could only be achieved by two people who had seen each other grow into their skin since they were barely humans, who had lived nearly as much by themselves as they had by each other’s side. It was an afternoon of sunshine and dry warmth, a rare occurrence when you wouldn’t feel suffocated by the air, the condensation gripping to your throat, clinging to your bronchi, making breathing an inhumanly difficult task. Existing felt comfortable, as it hadn’t felt in weeks, and I was somewhat content with this moment, in its’ simplicity.

We came to a stop by a marble bench, surrounded by green vegetation. On front of us, beyond the path, extended a flower bed of tulip and petunias. Draco motioned for me to sit beside him, so I did. We sat side by side for a little while, and as time stretched, I felt him tense up progressively. His posture was rigid, he kept fidgeting with his hands and tapping his foot rhythmically. Something was bothering him, and I could tell he wanted to say something, perhaps just didn’t know how. 

“It’s a lovely afternoon, don’t you think?” – I mused out loud, trying to get some reaction from him. My eyes traced the many colour petals, the different shades the reflection of the sun created. The breeze as it caused a slightly lulling motion of the leaves. 

He conceded, humming distractedly.

“This summer has been something awful, always dark and gloomy. So boring. I mean, dark is my favourite colour and all, but that is for clothing, it’s not a fashionable look for the sky at all.” – he kept humming, his eyes absent, caught in immense interest in the weeds in front of him. Clearly he wasn't hearing a word. – “Red would be a much better color. Oh I know, we should just try and have the entire sky turn red and yellow, and clouds be in shape of Potter’s head. It would be rather lovely, don’t you think Dracs?”

“Sure Pans.”

“Dracs.” – I called softly – “Draco, what’s the matter with you? You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying.” – I frowned a bit and continued, my tone of voice soft. – “You know you can talk to me darling.” 

He was silent for a few beats after my intervention, and I didn’t press further. I knew he would speak if he wanted to, and his hesitation was not a matter of further persistence, but yes a matter of him deciding on the words, he if choose to say them.

“Pans, you know you are very important to me, right?”

I was a bit thrown of by the question, but answered regardless.

"I somehow figured that, dear.”

“You're not just my girlfriend” - oh, yes,  _ that _ . I had almost forgotten we were dating. - “You're my very best friend.”

“You're my best friend too.” - I say it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, because it in fact is. - “Are you breaking up with me or something? 'Cause if you are, you should know I like to get straight to the point. Small talk makes me nauseous.”

The thought of our relationship ending was bittersweet. It would be a relieve, considering everything. However, my mother's disappointment was bound to be bone crushing, and it was not something I needed right now.

My words made him turn to me somehow abruptly, and he was quick to reassure me.

“No, Pans. Of course not. I'm not breaking up with you. Our parents would be devastated.” - he let out a dry laugh, and it felt strange, to say the least, that his first concern was that. But I was not about to claim loving words from him, when I had none to offer myself. - “I just wanted you to keep that in mind. You see…” - he paused, hesitating - “This year, it's going to be big for me, for us. After my father was… Well, it's my time to step up, my duty to my mother and the family's name. And I might be somewhat distant at times because of it, but I don’t want you to forget.”

He was looking straight at me when he said the last sentence and my heart squeezed with adoration for this boy I loved with all my heart, but wished I loved differently. How much simpler it would be. And such a amazing person he was, even if all that people saw was the bad he presented. But he was marble: poised, perfectly sculpted to sight. He only ever showed this side of him through cracks. Cracks few had the privilege to see, and I felt immensely grateful to be part of that select group.

“I won't forget, silly. Never, I promise. And if you ever need a place to rest your head after the worst of it, mama's lap is always at your disposal.”

He smiled a genuine smile and leaned forward slightly to kiss me softly on the lips. A kiss I returned dutifully.

And even after those words, the confirmation that someone actually cares, actually loves me, I felt nothing. Only the deafening reminder of brown eyes and fire.

**Hermione's POV**

Being back home in the muggle world made me feel like my life was set on pause. It was an alternative reality, one where all I did was read, go to museums with my parents and sip on black tea at five o’clock in a little, cozy cafe in a quiet street in London. 

I was currently waiting for my parents to leave work for the day so we could go to the theatre and then have dinner at our favourite italian place. Next morning, I was leaving to the Burrow and we were planning to enjoy my last night here, my last night with any semblance of peace.

I paused my reading into Kafka’s Metamorphosis to observe the environment around me. Today, I had settled for a sit outside, since the weather was pleasant enough. The street we were in was not too busy compared to the heart of London, but there was still a fare amount of commuters, and in typical London fashion the sample was rather diverse.

Two girls caught my attention. They were fairly young, not older than 20, both with fair complexion. One of them had black straight hair, shoulder-length, a narrow but slightly long nose, her eyes where big and crinkled at the sides, an obvious telltale of happiness. Her lips stretching, confirming the previous assumption. The other one, a bubbly blonde with small features, was enthusiastically speaking about something, gesticulating freely in the air. They walked side by side, close enough for their shoulders to brush almost casually, but not quite. 

Then the blonde halted her steps and clasped her hands together as if she saw something marvellous, and uttered something to her companion. The raven-haired girl looked at her in adoration, and leaned forward, a movement that looked involuntary, and kissed her on the cheek lightly, as her left hand cupped the other side of her face. A gesture so pure and full of love, I caught myself smiling without even noticing. My mind slipped to another raven-haired girl, another kiss, another reality and the sudden image, the tingle that took over my lips and spread throughout my belly made me choke on air. 

My racing mind was brought to a halt before it could even start to go into overdrive when their moment, and my moment by association, were shattered by foreign hatred.

“Have some decency, filthy dykes!”

A middle age man shouted from across the street. The two girls jumped apart, startled, their eyes roaming around anxiously trying to locate the source of the hateful words.

“You need to try some good dick, you'd be cured right'way. I'd show ya!” 

The hateful words came, this time menacing, threatening. No one around them interceded, no one said anything. Everyone else carried on with their lives as if nothing around them was amiss. As if two young girls were not being harassed in the middle of the street in broad daylight. The dark haired girl broke out of the paralysed state first, pulling her girlfriend with her as she briskly walked away.

I stood, mouth agape. I was no stranger to discrimination, no stranger to hate speech. Unfortunately, I had been at the receiving end of some concerning my blood status, more than once in the past. Furthermore, I had also been exposed to homophobia before. Nothing about this type of interaction was news to me, and even if I had, always, vehemently opposed, and actively despised any type of discrimination, this time the implication of what had transpired hit me so forcefully, I felt incapable of breath for a few moments.

Something inside me responded in a visceral manner, flashbacks of a snake's tongue slithering through my lips. Terrified eyes, blown out orbs of fear, fear I hadn't been able to place before. Fear I now understood, was most likely of this kind of innate response by her peers, by myself included. And I understood, as well, why I hadn't said anything.

I had feared as well. And it was the fear, still now present, that if I was to recount the events, my expressions, my eyes, my mouth, would betray me, and everyone would figure out the ugly truth: I had enjoyed it, deep in my core and up until the nerve endings of my skin. I had enjoyed it, and I could not deny it to myself any longer, however, I would deny it to everyone else with every fiber of my being.


	4. It starts off slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit small, but I'll post another one soon to make up for it.

**4th Chapter **\- It starts off slowly

**Hermione’s POV**

_ At the Burrow's _

“I'm going off to Luna's. I'll be back in time for dinner.” - Ginny shouted as she rushed through the door, broom in hand, and before even giving her mother time to respond, she climbed in her broom and was off flying in an instant, towards her destination.

I came in the day before almost at bed time, so today was my official first day at the Burrow this summer. Me and Ginny talked through most of the night and all of this morning, her incessant curiosity about my life beyond the magic world propelling her to keep asking questions even regarding the most trivial details.

She looked happier, lighter than she did all throughout most of the past year in Hogwarts. Her face was carefree, as I had only seen when she was up in the sky. 

Maybe yesterday had been a really good day for her, maybe it had been an entirely good summer. 

I wondered if it had anything to do with Harry, that thought fast and firmly swept from my mind as soon as I set eyes on my best-friend and took notice that is smile didn't quite reached his eyes, his entire demeanor downcast. Him and Ginny interacted less than usual and he kept stealing longing glances at her when he was out of her line of sight. 

A prime example of such an occasion was right now. Harry stood in the doorway gazing up at the place where Ginny had disappeared between the clouds, no trail left behind, no way for him to follow.

“Hey Harry.” - I approached calmly in order not to startle him.

“Oh, hi 'Mione. I didn't see you there.” - he turned to me and smiled sincerely.

“I figured that much.” - I said knowingly. - “You been busy paying attention to other matters.”

He blushed, a crimson tone took over his neck and his cheeks. He brought his right hand to adjust his glasses a few times. His eyes met mine for a split second before looking away again, towards the sky.

“That obvious, ahm?” 

“To the careful observer, yes. And, oh well - to the non-careful too.” - I joked a bit, lightening the mood.

Harry groaned in response.

“God, I am ridiculous, right? She's probably the only one that doesn't see it. I mean, she and Ron, that git is as oblivious as a freaking door. Thank Merlin.”

The last remark coached an involuntary laugh out of me. Ron was mostly oblivious when it came to his baby sister. I swear, Harry could be kissing Ginny in front of him and he'd still find a way to pass it off as friendly banter. 

“You're not ridiculous, you're just infatuated. Happens to everyone.”

“It's just… I knew she had feelings for me before. It took me a while to figure it out, and then a bit longer to get over the all “Ron's baby sister” thing. And now I want her, I'm sure. And I've been trying 'Mione. But she just doesn't give me the time of day anymore.” - he exhaled forcefully, and with the amount of air he expelled I wondered if he had been holding his breath since that morning or maybe since the beginning of the summer. - “She's never home, she's always off to Luna's or somewhere. And when she is home I can't get her attention for more than 5 minutes. I don't know what to do…”

I closed the distance between us and hugged him tightly against my chest. 

“Maybe she just needs some time, or maybe just tell her. Ask her how she feels. It's always the best way.”

He nodded somewhat dejectedly against me, a half-hearted promise that he would indeed have that talk in the future. Maybe a distant future, but in the future nonetheless.

“And you, 'Mione?”

“Me? What about me?” - I asked somewhat thrown off by the question.

Harry eyes me intently for a few seconds, his eyelids lowered slightly. It's the look he gives me when he thinks I am in denial about something that is painfully obvious to him. I stare back at him, unsuspicious of what scenarios he is conjuring up in that mind of his. At the lack of response from my end he furrowed his eyebrows, a small wrinkle forming between them. His mouth begins to move, but before any words can tumble out, an unnecessarily loud Ron catches our attention.

“Hey, you two! What you're gossiping about without me?” - he arrives by our side pouting, puppy dog eyes set in place. 

Harry eyes me one last time, confusion still evident in my features, before he is answering Ron.

“Nothing much mate, I was just telling Hermione about my summer and the, you know, the news.”

I had no idea what “the news” were, but Harry tilt of the head when he met my eyes told me I would know as soon as he had another chance to talk to me alone, and prompted me to just play along for now. He didn't want his best-friend knowing he had the hots for his baby sister, understandably. Ron would go bunkers. 

  
  


**Pansy's POV**

Being back at Hogwarts was a much welcomed relief from being entrapped in Parkinson Park. Every year, behind the mask of boredom and apathy towards my surroundings, I secretly shared the enthusiasm of arriving first years. Them, anxious to discover a new world; me, anxious to return to one where I didn't feel like a constant disappointment to my parents. I would look at them, feigning disgust and contempt, but if somebody could see the other side of my skin, they would see a smile of empathy, of recognition. Recognition of that little, peaky girl who once entered through those same doors, with those same wistful eyes, yearning to find a home within these walls, a sense of belonging unlike she had at the frigid walls of her place of residence. 

Now, 6 years later, I might have not found the home I hoped for, but it is still a welcome refuge from the ever stormy skies I have back at Parkinson Park.

The sorting had come and gone without incident, another handful of young Slytherins had been welcomed with prideful applause from some and cold indifference from others. Another batch of young wizards who would be expected to spend their first years respecting and, to some degree fearing, me. That, however, had been before last year's events, before this summer's soul-searching journey within the four walls of my room, within myself. This year was different. 

So, I smiled warmly to the new members of our clan, as a welcoming sign. My friends eyed me eerily, finding odd that behaviour coming from me. I offered no explanations, didn't felt I had to. Looking only at Draco to gauge is reaction, and finding an absent look on his face. I worried not with everyone else and the scrutiny of my behaviour, choosing instead to focus my attention on Daphne and the uninterruptible tale of her summer liaison with some  _ unabashedly sexy _ french guy, as she so tactfully put it. 

I caught a glimpse of Auburn hair in my peripheral vision and an electric shock ran through my veins. For the rest of dinner I nodded absentmindedly to daphne's story, laughing on cue and posing the appropriate question to keep her going, all the while trying to inconspicuously sneak glances at  _ her _ across the Great Hall.

\--------

Draco was odd. Odder than usual, which was saying something, considering how he was in a day to day basis. 

He was gone frequently, and when he was present, he was withdrawn and quiet. He was fidgety and evasive whenever I asked him about his whereabouts or activities, dismissing my worried looks with barely a scoff.  _ Pans, I adore you, but I really don't need another parent. Mother does the job well enough. _

I wanted to slap him, honestly. I had rolled my eyes so frequently the past couple of weeks, I was certainly in danger of getting a distended ocular muscle. But every time I was about to protest further he would smile at me in that cheeky way, kiss my cheek and sauntered off to Salazar's knows where. 

This whole ordeal meant we weren't spending time as a couple, which was a relief, because I wouldn't have known how to halt his advances without offering an explanation, and I certainly had no idea how to explain. In spite of that I missed my best friend terribly, and was desperate to have some time with him.

That was how I found myself sitting outside in the dirt, near the Slytherins’ locker room, watching, disinterested, as Draco cleaned and fixed up his broom. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.

“You look so manly doing all that scrubbing and huffing and puffing. It's a stark contrast with the Cashmere turtleneck.” 

“I happen to believe that a dignified man should keep himself clean and compose in every circumstance. It is called class, darling. I was convinced you valued that quality in a person. Was I mistaken, perhaps?”

I laughed earnestly. I had missed this.

“You are quite correct, my dear. I appreciate how chic and graceful you, invariably, are. It makes me feel rather macho in comparison, makes a girl try harder.”

“Always delighted to set a good example.” - he grinned, almost boyishly and adjusted his air back.

“Why don't you just use magic to do this, anyway?” - I waved my hand vaguely to the broom and all the cleaning supplies displayed before me. - “It'd spare you the house elf work.”

“I find it therapeutic.” - he answered, shrugging - “And it's a good luck charm before important matches.”

I looked at him, not at all convinced with his answer, but accepted it anyway, focusing on bathing in the UV light currently opening up the sky.

Despite october being in its’ final breaths, the sun was blazing in the sky, the clouds had made themselves scarce, the weather uncharacteristically warm for the season. 

A solitary drop of sweat ran down the side of Draco's face, his hand catching it just barely before it dripped to the floor. His face was flushed from the heat, the marble complexion giving place to the light pink adorning the skin on top of his cheek bones. A rather inelegant grunt escaped Draco and I almost snickered at the slight display of imperfection. 

“This is bloody unbearable. We're in Autumn already for Salazar's sake.”

“Maybe if you dressed appropriately for the season and stopped being so stubborn about using nothing other than those damn turtlenecks as soon as the first leaf falls you wouldn't be suffering so much right now.”

He grunted again, surely regretting his wardrobe choices deeply, and he rolled up his sleeves to above the elbow. 

As soon as he did, a dark blurr caught my attention and I let out a startled scream. Draco's head snapped up, his eyes meeting mine, a glimpse of confusion there before realization set in. He moved to cover his forearms again, but I was faster, already halfway to him when he realized his slip-up. One of my hand grabbed his wrist and the other flew to his sleeve, preventing it from coming down.

“Is this why you have been acting so weird?” - I almost shouted - “You got branded -”

He shushed me urgently them, his eyes darting around nervously - “Please don't speak so loud.”

Even if I was murderously upset with him I understood why he didn't want anyone to overhear, so I lowered my tone of voice to a kind of angry whispering.

“You got the dark mark?” - he nodded in response.

“When?”

His voice was calm when he answered - “This summer, a few days after you came to Malfoy's Manor.”

Realization dawned on me. - “Oh… That was what you were referring to when you said that big things were coming…”

He concede, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Why did you do it Dracs? I know we always said all that crap about mudbloods and all, but it was just to please our parents… You know Voldemort is no good, you know.”

“Voldemort is the saviour of the wizarding world. He is going to purify all of this, give us what is ours by right of birth.” - his face was the perfect picture of stillness and determination, but I knew better. I knew he didn't believe that one bit.

“Come on Dracs!” - my voice was pleading now, hearing those words coming out of his mouth was making my heart ache, unbearably - “You don't believe that stuff.”

“I do Pansy. And you should too.” - he tried to sound confident, assertive, but I could hear the cracks in his voice, the cracks in his speech, the uncertainty in his eyes. He didn't wait for my answer before getting up abruptly and walking off with his broom, leaving me behind gobsmacked.

  
  


**Hermione's POV **

Sixth year had been positively kicking my arse. The workload was heavier than ever, the classes more demanding, and my brain less able to concentrate. There was a black-hole with specs of green in a corner of my mind, that would suck my focus every now and then, and it infuriated me to no end. Not a single insult had been thrown my way in that perfect clipped voice since the beginning of the year, and not for a lack of opportunity. She even took to smile at me in the halls, in a way that, would I be naive enough to be fooled by such things, I would have classified as amicable and shy. It was highly disconcerting, not just her bizarre attitude but also the fact it was affecting me more than I would like to admit and in the stranger ways. I was frustrated beyond reasonable limits. 

That was the inner struggle being carried out by my synapses in the moment. In a moment specially reserved for studying, a moment in which it was imperative to solve the problems the teacher had given us in potions’ class last week, since it was for tomorrow's class.

“Hey 'Mione. What you up too?” - Ron sat down besides me, dimples in full display, he had been enjoying is free time with other matters that didn't pertained to classes. 

“I'm studying.” - I answered him curtly, not in the mood for distractions, having enough of that in my own head. 

“You always are.” - He smiles fondly, his tone somewhat disapproving of my resistance to idle around all day. - “You need to take a break sometime. What about now?”

“I need to understand this potion Ron, that is the priority  _ now _ . Not taking a break.” - I answered, annoyed.

“Come on 'Mione! You need to relax a little, you're away too up-tight.” - he remains cheerful despite my less than welcoming tone.

“Ronald, what I am is frustrated because I am having trouble understanding this potion and your presence is not helping in the slightest.”

“Jezz Hermione, I'm sorry I suggested anything.” - He looked hurt that I had talked to him so harshly and my heart softened a bit. 

“I'm sorry Ron, I didn't mean to be so rude. I'm just stressed.” - I tried to sound apologetic, looking him straight in the eyes and smiling softly.

Ron smiled back, dimples back in place and reached his hand across the table to squeeze mine. 

“It's okay, I know it upsets you when I try to impose my lazy ways on you. I just worry about you, you know?”

Ron was a darling when he wanted to, and that secured him a safe space in my heart.

From behind me came the sound of someone clearing their throat, an interruption to our moment. Before I could turn to see who it was a voice spoke, and instantly the look of distaste that settled on Ron's face became understandable. 

“I'm sorry to interrupt.” - Pansy _ bloody _ Parkinson. I jumped imperceptibly in my seat from surprise. Ron reacting much more timely than I did.

“What do you want Parkinson?” - Ron said threateningly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, a defensive stance.

“Hello Ronald.” - Ron's eyes widened a bit at the usage of his first name, and then just about bulged out of their socks with Pansy's next words - “Hermione. I couldn't help but overhear that you are having trouble with the potion for tomorrow's class.”

“If you came here to mock me, do not bother. I assure you I'll be able to master it by class, Parkinson.” - I said, finally turning to face her. Her features didn't seem menacing, she looked harmless.

“That... Hmm… That is not not what I came here for. I have something that might help.”

Ron scoffed rather audibly and mumbled something akin to “ _ Help from a snake, probably a trap… _ ”. I cocked my eyebrow and waited for her to continue, equal parts curious and skeptical.

“They're notes from a book my parents have in their private collection regarding advance potion brewing. I brought the book with me this year and the next class’ potion was in there, so I took a few notes to help me understand.”

I pursued my eyebrow further, distrust evident in my face.

“And why would you give me your precious notes? Don't you need them?”

Pansy smiled softly, apparently not fazed by the less than welcoming receival of her offer. 

“I've got it pretty much down by now. Besides, I have the book with me, I can easily make new ones.”

Left unconvinced by her answer I continued to gaze at her suspiciously, analysing her. 

Carefully she stepped forward and placed the papers she was holding on top of my table, stepping back afterwards in order to keep an appropriate amount of personal distance.

“Here. Use them if you'd like.” - She was about to turn back and walk away, but before she went she added - “Oh, and they are not cursed or anything. I like to think that you give some credit to think me foolish enough to resort to such basic methods.” 

Pansy Parkinson walked away without another glance my way leaving me bewildered behind. My gaze drifted to the papers laying defying on top of the table, curiosity bubbling inside me.

“What bloody hell just happened?” - came the scandalized questioning from Ron.

I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, words lost somewhere within my throat. My eyes remained in the carefully manuscripted pages, the still unknown words stringing themselves together and looping around my focus of attention, trapping it there, turning even Ron's presence in to background noise. Unconsciously I leaned forward, my hand reaching towards them.

“Hermione, no! That has some kind of hex probably, just burn the bloody thing” - As he said that he began reaching for his wand, no doubt intending to follow through with his suggestion.

I reached for the pages instinctively, not even pausing to consider the possible consequences of the object being, like Ron claimed, cursed.

“Don't.” - I said assertively, leaving Ron gaping like a fish, his wand in his hand. - “I'll check for every curse I know, before reading it. Now put your wand down before you hurt yourself or someone else.”

“But -” - I cut him off before Ron could start to complain.

“No buts, if it will help with this goddamn potion, I'll take it.”

The marked frown on his face screamed his disapproval, but he knew it was fruitless to argue further, so he folded his arms in front of his chest and slumped on the chair.


	5. How the tides change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit bigger, and I've been a bit busy lately so I'm sorry for any mistakes. Hope you enjoy it!

**5th Chapter - How the tides change**

**Hermione’s POV**

The pages layed neatly on the foot of my bed and for the past 15 minutes they had been on the receiving end of my inquisitive glares. Every corner of the page, every path of ink, every graceful loop of the letters, every dot had been put under heavy scrutiny by my watchful gaze. My wand had navigated up and down the damn thing, mouthing every hex revealing spell I knew and it had come out clean every time.

Apparently, they weren't cursed. And since I had already touched them and nothing bad had transpired I decided to, at least, read them.

Well, Godrick be damned. The information was pertinent, correct as far as I could tell and more helpful than I could've anticipated. Still, I couldn't be secure the solutions offered were indeed appropriate, that they weren't merely a means to make me humiliate myself when I did try them.

On the off chance the information was reliable, Pansy's motivation was an enigma, so uncharacteristic and unexpected from the character we had come to know. It was an act of kindness, a gesture of helpfulness unsought and my brain could not fit that piece inside the contours of what was Pansy Parkinson. Her borders were well defined in my eyes, had been since first year. There were no grey areas, no room for doubts regarding her nature. She was dark, and evil, spiteful, conniving, hateful, destructive. There was no good, kind, helpful Pansy. This outlier didn't change those adjectives, didn't blur any lines, didn't create any grey spots in the image I had of her. 

And because I didn't believe anything even remotely good could come from her, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

\--------

The other shoe never dropped. The one that previously did just got heavier, progressively sinking me into confusion.

In a moment of desperation I ended up using the tips scribbled down in Pansy's notes and the end result had been high praise from the Professor and a silent, victorious smile from Pansy. 

Afterwards she hadn't approached me, hadn't made any nasty remark (or any remark at all). 

It was disconcerting and another cloud of smoke in the fog that was Pansy Parkinson. A fog in a state of unrestrained growth that spread through the microscopic cracks of my mind and, without warning signs, infected the corners of my brain, threatening to impair my judgement and threatening insanity if I didn't cease its' advance. Oh, and cease I would, I would chalk up this action (and others odd occurrences) to momentary lapses of insanity from her part, and I would retain the image of Parkinson unsullied, or, more correctly, uncleaned. 

**Pansy's POV**

Hogwarts was a small world, a contained ecosystem in a glass dome with controlled channels of contact with the outside world. All the species were familiar with each other, the feeding chain was cemented and the dynamics ingrained on the bones of those that in them inhabit and so, extremely predictable. The student body was conservative in their traditions, and a prime example of that were Quidditch matches.

Rare was the individual not present in that gathering, not howling their lungs into blood in defense of their team.

Personally, I wasn't the biggest fan of the sport. It was dull and not mentally challenging enough to retain my focus, furthermore, watching fourteen people fly around aimlessly grunting, yelling and sweating was not something that brought me joy. It transpired an exaggerate amount of testosterone that often left me nauseous. 

It was also a fact that throughout the years I had not missed a single match for a plethora of reasons, reasons that could, fundamentally, be summed up to maintenance of my social status and/or support of Draco. Today, and despite the suspension of sorts our relationship had found itself in, I had came exclusively for the last reason. And perhaps, a small part of my presence was also due to Gryffindor being the opposing team, Hermione sure to be in the stands cheering for her friends and housemates.

We were yet in the warm-up and the noise in the stadium was deafening already, however among Slytherin's fans reigned a nervous whisper, our seeker nowhere to be seen. Draco's poignant absence seemed to come as a surprise to everyone around, even the team itself, who kept glancing in intervals to the entrance of the player's tent, their movements stiff, unfocused. 

A few minutes before the game was set to start the tent flaps opened and haphazardly exited Draco, still adjusting his gloves, looking disheveled. Urquhart flew down to meet him in the ground and a hushed, heated discussion took place between them, no doubt the captain scolding Draco for his tardiness and demanding some sort of explanation. Soon the warning for the players to get into position sounded and booth Urquhart and Draco abandoned their discussion, a rabid look on Urquhart face that assured anyone that cared to know that Draco would not be getting out of this so lightly.

The disruption in the begging left cracks in our team's game, the lack of harmony and coordination compromising several of our plays, turning coordinated and outlined routes into alleys with no exit, rarely ever coming to a conclusion in the form of positive outcomes for Slytherin. The air was heavy, the atoms stringing themselves together tightly forming a fluid-thick paste that weighed down your lungs. Barely any sound coming from our side of the stands, the cheering tuned down to a collective choir of disappointment. 

Not surprisingly, Harry Potter caught the snitch, a comfortably won battle against a distracted Draco, and the metaphorical bloodbath came to an end, a mercy to our team of snakes. 

In a background of red and yellow euphoria, the contrasting descent of green into the ground was starking, akin to a parade of fallen heroes returning, sulking, from a battle lost, cannon fire from their enemies framing the soundtrack.

No member of Slytherin stuck around, but Draco nearly ran out of the field, barely keeping his composure not to break Hogwarts rules and apparate out of sight. 

I wanted to run after him and hug him, comfort and support him, tell him he could talk to me. Tell him that dark thing in his arm didn't matter to me, but also that I didn't want it to become a black hole that swallowed my best friend. I wanted to pull him from the quicksand, slap him twice and hug him against my chest in a bone crushing way, until the sweet Draco I knew would spill out of the fissures of his armour and be again.

Yet, I remained still and passive in my seat, the only manifestation of emotion my eyes trailing his shadow with worry as it mixed with the dark mantle that surround the castle as night arrived, and wondering if that was what was going to be left of my best friend when the war came.

\-------

Dinner was silent, to put it kindly, on Slytherin's table. Everyone too busy sulking or being frustrated over this afternoon's events. Draco was m.i.a., not in his dorm, not in the library, not in the dungeons, not in our place near the astronomy tower, nowhere. I had turned every corner of this castle and found no trace of that boy, no pristine white blond hair, no glimpse of cashmere, no whiff of lavender perfume. After the last meal of the day I had no choice but to cease my search and wait, hope that tomorrow I would be able to place my eyes on an unscathed, maybe (on a more hopeful note) smiling, Draco.

Around the time a new day met its’ end and gave space to another one, it was him who found me. I was taking my customary midnight trip to the bathroom when it happened. I was just casually walking through the hall about to reach the Prefect's bathroom door when I nearly died of tachycardia.

“I don't believe any of it.”

“For Salazar's sake!” - I shrieked, simultaneously taking my hand to my chest to try and catch the heart that was threatening to jump between my ribs. - “You scared me half to death, Draco.”

He was closer now, his face barely visible, the dark circles around his eyes an extension of the gloom.

“Can we talk? Somewhere private.” 

I nodded and followed as he lead the way. We walked silent through the halls, our shadows indistinguishable in the constant parade of odd grey shapes adorning the thick stone walls, the path ahead illuminated by the greyish shine of the half-moon. 

Draco stopped by the small, forsaken utilities closet we had found hidden away in a deserted corner, back in second year. We had stumbled upon it accidentally after a rough defeat against Gryffindor while Draco passed furiously around the castle with me fast in pursuit. We sat there for nearly two hours while he calmed down and told me how terrified he was to disappoint his father, how he felt, often, like he wasn't living to what his father envisioned for him, how he acted the way he did to make his father proud. Then and there I knew we had found common ground, real common ground. Something deeper than the preached pureness of blood, which, in all truthness, mattered very little for our happiness. From that point onward we both turned our monologues into a two-person play. The world felt a tad bit less lonely after that afternoon. We were both still someone else for the outside world, but at least we could be ourselves around each other. 

For the past 4 years we came here several times together, and me at least, as many times alone as well. It felt like some sort of sanctuary, a place I came to when the acting became too real, too overwhelming and I needed to remember who I was.

We sat side by side, backs against the cold wall and after a few moments just breathing together, Draco spoke up.

“You were right Pans, I think it's a load of bollocks, that Voldemort thing.” 

I already knew, but nonetheless it was a relief to hear him say it. 

“I bloody despise having this on my skin. Most nights I want to hex it off, I barely refrain myself from doing so.” - through the dim light that enters the room I saw him bring his hand to scratch his forearm absentmindedly. I reached over and placed my hand over his, getting him to stop, and squeezed lightly, a sign for him to continue speaking.

“I had to Pans. I had to stand up for my family, for my mom… I hate it, but I had too.”

I could hear how conflicted he was, his voice trembling, like he was tearing at the seams. All the tension he had bottled up pretending everything was okay, every terrible feeling he repressed and that then clawed on to his insides scratching, screaming, making sure he didn't forget its’ existence. Finally releasing all of that was an explosion of tension that threatened to submerge his every part under that wave of feeling.

I held his hand, my hold strong and certain, anchoring him down to this reality, our reality.

“It's okay, Dracs. I understand.”

He sighed, my reassurance a metaphorical calming cloth over his aching back, and let his head fall onto my shoulder.

“Just know you don't need to pretend with me, okay?”

He nodded slightly against me and there we stood, for how long I cannot recount, but enough for Draco to breath again.

**Hermione’s POV**

That evening was marked by the uncanny absence of Harry from the dinner table. Today’s win had been monumental, and so I was expecting to find an ecstatic mess of brown and red hair, chanting incessantly and reveling in praise. And I did found the entire team so boisterously laughing and so cheerful they took over the entire Great Hall. However their captain was notably absent. 

The possible reason for this evaded me completely until I was approached by a concerned looking Ginny.

“‘Mione, I need a favor.”

“Of course Ginny.”

“Could you, hum, go check on Harry?”

“Harry, why? What happened? Is he obsessing over Malfoy in some secluded corner?”

“No…” - she looks almost guilty - “We had, hum, a complicated conversation.”

“Oh, oh! Hum, right. I’ll go to him.” - I get up immediately - “You know where he is, by any chance?”

“I left him by the astronomy tower. If he ain’t there, I’d reckon he’d be on the pitch flying. It’s where he goes when he needs his space.”

“Okay, Ginny. I’ll go.”

I hear her thanking me as I walk away briskly, speeding towards the aforementioned destinations to look for Harry.

I find him up in the hair, circling the pitch. I try to call out to him, using my full lung capacity, but either the sound waves don’t reach his ears or he is choosing to ignore me. Finally, I realise he isn’t coming down and that the only way I can get to him is by getting up there myself. I hate flying, avoid it every chance I get. Just the thought of getting on a broom makes me nauseous. However, in this moment, more important issues arise, and before I can rationalize it, I am getting a broom from the supply closet and flying up to the skies. 

Catching up with Harry was no small ordeal, and when I finally did, after franticly calling out his name and demanding he wait, I looked disheveled and breathless, anything but at ease.

“Harry, thank Merlin.”

“Hermione, what are you doing here?”

“I seem to be flying, don’t you reckon?”

He quirked his eyebrow, unamused at my poor attempt at a joke. “Why are you flying? You hate it.”

“I suppose I just had a strong desire to be, uh, among the clouds.”

Harry scoffed, and I was made aware he was in no mood for jokes.

“Ginny sent you?”

“Ah, who now? No, no! I, uh, came of my own volition.” - lying to my his face was never part of my talents.

His whole expression grew angry and he turned away from me, calling back:

“Leave Hermione, tell Ginny I don’t need any pity party.”

He was agile and fast, escaping through the winds, and I tried to follow, in the most unclassy like way you can image.

“Harry, wait please! I am not… she did not… that. I was just worried about you!”

My words fall again on deaf ears, and I hate him somewhat for making me do such an unpleasant task as flying just to get a hold of him.

“Harry, for god’s sake. If I fall of this broom trying to catch you, so help me Merlin.”

My angry tone and threat of imminent danger to myself make him turn away and come to me. He looks angry still, but not quiet as ravenous as before.

“I just got dumped, that’s all. I can handle it like a grown person.”

“Oh, I am so sorry Harry, I didn’t know…” - well, that makes sense - “I’d hug you right now, but, uh, I am petrief of cascading to my demise.” - I nod towards my hands, viciously gripping the broom beneath me.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No, I was worried about you and all she said was that you might be here.”

“Oh.” - he adjusts his glasses, eyes downcast. - “I had that conversation with her, it didn’t go so well.”

“I’m sorry mate. You want to talk about it, maybe on solid ground?” - I ask, hopeful that he will realise how uncomfortable I am to be here.

“Yeah, yeah, sure ‘Mione. Sorry you had to fly because of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you would, uh, not fly for me too.”

We’re sitting side by side, leaning against the outside of the bleachers when he continues, his voice pained.

“She said she doesn’t have feelings for me anymore.” - I rub my hand along his back unsure what other confort I can offer - “I don’t get it, you all said we were perfect for each other. Everyone was expecting it. And I just, I thought…” - he sighs dejectedly - “I don’t understand what happened. Do you think she has someone else?”

“I don’t know… I don’t reckon. But that is not what you should be focusing on. If she doesn’t want to be with you, then it doesn’t matter if it is due to someone else or not.”

“Well, if it’s someone else I can just, I dunno, fight or …” - he waves his hands up in the air, trying to put into gestures the words he cannot say.

“Fight them Harry? What do you think that would get you besides detention and a very upset Ginny?”

“I don’t…” - the last trace of resistance dies in his eyes and I know he got to the point. - “I just gotta accept it, ahm?”

“Yeah, love, you do. I’m sorry.” 

I hugged him tight, squeezing him against my chest. His body limp, devoid of energy, and when we part I see no fight back in him, only resignation.

“I guess it’s for the best. I still do have to figure out what Malfoy’s up to. This allows me more focus.”

I don’t appreciate this obsession at all, but don’t have the heart to reprimand him further in this delicate moment.

“Sure Harry, you do that. It’ll be alright.”

\--------

I walked briskly through the halls, not in a hurry to get to anywhere in particular but in a perpetual rush, an ingrained part of my character nowadays. A stack of books carefully balanced on my arms, determination on my step and barely a second look spared to the surrounding environment.

Suddenly, and unfortunately, a rough voice sounded on my left.

“Eya Mudblood, where are you going in such a hurry? Off to learn some real magic?”

I groaned inwardly at the sound of Goyle's voice, really not in the state of mind to deal with such goons. I walked faster, unwilling to dignify their taunting with a response.

“What's the matter? Left your tongue in dirty Weasley's mouth?” - Crabbe's rugged voice joined. 

Suddenly a massive blockage materialised in front of me, my reflexes not salvaging me front colliding almost violently with the intruding body. The books scattered along the floor clumsily with several loud thuds that morphed into one thunderous crash. I stepped back hastily, trying to gain some distance between the stone wall that was Gregory Goyle and myself, only to find Crabbe standing not far behind me. 

“It's quite the waste, don't you think Crabbe? Having you hanging around that Weasley loser. You're not completely hideous for a Mudblood.” - his tone was vicious, predatory, maliciousness swimming in his gaze.

Crabbe's snickered behind me, his presence making stepping back an invalid option.

“And I am sure we could find something for that mouth to do besides all the nagging.” - I recoiled at his words, the disgust cursing through me in pulses, intermitent with fear. He had inched forward again, invading my personal space further. There was a tingling starting on my toes, my racing heart thumping violently in a roar that yearned to wake up my every nerve, a fight or flight response taking over. Instinctively, I reached for my wand, only to be stopped halfway by a calloused, violent grip, Goyle's hand gripping my wrist forcefully, the feel of a forming bruise underneath his enormous fingers stinging in radius through the remaining surface of my arm. - “Where is that hand going? I got another wand I'd much rather you reached for.” 

There was a perverse grin on his face and a sudden surge of terror convulsed me, I concentrated my entire strength in one movement, trying to yank my arm away, but to no avail. 

I tried to scream but all that exited my throat was a hoarse and subdued  _ No _ , as if his calloused hand was clasping my neck instead of my arm, prompting a mere laugh from my aggressor.

He started to move my hand downwards and time seemed to stand still, a cloud of panic entangled my senses, tenting my sense of time and space, the reality of the situation setting in like smoke that filled my lungs and suffocated me in a slow, torturous pace.

Then, three things happened at once, my hazy mind with difficulty in differencing and processing each one: a green light filled my field of vision, my hand was hastily dropped and a guttural grunt came from above me.

I stood dumbfounded, incapable of understanding what had transpired in my surroundings. As soon as I found the presence of mind to observe what happened I found a mewling Goyle holding a battered hand against his chest, a nasty gash just below his fingers. Crabbe had his mouth hanging open and a fear in his orbs that I didn't quite understood until I saw her. 

Pansy Parkinson stood, pristine, unfazed, her posture flawless and wand clutched at her side. She looked almost bored by the the scene in front of her, something I would've believe she was if it wasn't for the subtle twitch in the corner of her eye, imperceptible almost, but a clear sign of bother. Then I looked into her eyes and they were the most blaring sign of her feelings, there was a fire in them. A white, contained, controlled fire, the kind that threatened controlled, unapologetic, calculated destruction, the most dangerous type. I recognized it because it had been directed at me so frequently in the past, and now I saw her rabid stare focused intently on the victim of her hex, the boy that had been about to harm me before.

When she spoke her tone was leveled and calm, showing no trace of emotion besides a slight biting anger in the strain of her voice.

“Now now, boys. Sexual assault is not a good look on you. It's not becoming of a respectful pure blood gentleman.”

Goyle muttered something akin to  _ Bitch  _ under his breath, however if the word reached Pansy's hears she showed no sign of it. 

“Now vanish from my sight before I resort to other measures. And if I ever catch wind of another incident like this again, next time I'll hex something rather than your hand, and I assure you there will be no treatment for that.” - the belligerence in her words barely concealed now.

Before she even finished her sentence they were both basically running away from where I stood, still astonished, still incapable of speech. I gaped at her in a fish like manner while she approached me carefully, a gentle, cautious look on her features. 

“I'm sorry for them, they're buffoons and have no notion of respect.” - she said, her voice much more warm and sympathetic. 

In the meantime she had lowered herself in order to gather my forgotten books in her arms. My eyes were trained on her, the ability to form coherent words evaded me and I failed to come up with an appropriate answer, or any answer at all. 

I stared at her, suspicion and confusion dancing together in my gaze, until she cleared her throat smoothly and I finally noticed her outstretched arms handing me the books. I moved hastily to retreat the objects from her and at last managed to coax a pathetic  _ Thank you _ from my impotent vocal cords. 

Her face opened in a genuine smile and then she spoke, before walking away and leaving me behind doing the futile mental exercise of trying to wrap my mind around what just transpired.

“You don't need to thank me, Hermione. And if they bother you again, do tell me please.”

**Pansy's POV**

I had never felt that type of white blinding anger before. My every muscle contracting simultaneously, my cells in a hurricane screaming to flee and to wreck havoc upon them. The way it took every bit of my self-control and rationality not to castrate them both on sight... 

The enormity of the feeling took me by surprise in such a way I had to congratulate myself for keeping any semblance of calm. 

The chatter regarding the incident was sure to find me sooner rather than later, the questioning from my housemates was going to be unavoidable, suspicions were to be raised certainly. Even with the anxiety and angst the thought of that confrontation gave me I couldn't bring myself to regret my actions. Protecting Hermione had been instinctive, and all that mattered truly was that she got out of the situation unharmed. This raised a deeper, more concerning preoccupation: how far I was willing to go to protect her in the future; what were the implications of this gripping need in my future as a Slytherin, and more importantly as a Parkinson, since those things were not compatible in any form. This felt disruptive and so, I could feel the fracture in my being growing, deepening. 

The confrontation came two days later when an unknown Muggle born from Hufflepuff was tripped by a fellow Slytherin and fell while exiting a class and I decided to help her up, not giving two thoughts to my actions. 

“So, you're some kind of blood traitor good-doer that is keen on being helpful to Mudbloods now Parkinson?” - came the voice of Theodore Nott, mocking, dripping its' characteristic superiority.

“Excuse me?”

“We have all heard about the debacle with Granger, Vincent and Gregory last Sunday. How you came in defense of the Mudblood.” - he was accusatory in his words, but not in the way he spoke, his voice polished as always, a slight edge of defiance the only thing worth taking note. - “Any change in your allegiance you care to share with us?”

“Spare me, Theodore. You are well aware my actions were in no way derivative from any semblance of affection towards the Mudblood.” - my tongue clicked against my teeth, my words laced with disdain for the subject on itself and trying to sound dismissive and to some degree offended with Theodore's accusations. - “We are the superior race, we must act accordingly, not like a bunch of animals. I was merely saving Vincent and Gregory the embarrassment of acting like irrational gorilas.”

Theodore arched his eyebrow and eyed me defiantly, clearly unconvinced by my answer. Even if I didn't feel like I needed them to validate my persona anymore, being a pariah was not something I yearned for either, so it was important to keep either a low profile or appearances. Honestly, I just wanted to go unnoticed until the end of the year, perhaps until the end of my time in Hogwarts all together. Should've known better… You can't spend the first five years of your education doing whatever is in your reach to be noticed, for all the wrong reasons nonetheless, and then expect to change your posture drastically, from night to day almost, without any questions thrown your way.

This interrogation was bound to happen, and I was positive it wasn't going to be the last time my place in Slytherin, or in the world even, would be questioned.

“Don't buy it.” - Theodore said dismissively - “Our girl isn't such a snake anymore, she has a soft spot for Mudbloods apparently. Don't you happen to agree, B?”

Blaise, that until then stood quietly next to Theo, just observing the whole interaction, nodded, albeit, unlike Theo, the look on his eyes was more teasing than menacing. Blaise always had a kinder heart in this regard, his own family history the main contributor to such. Even when I was an arrogant bully I had been able to see that, and I always admired him for never allowing the notion that he somehow didn't belong there be something in his way. The manner he carried himself, the way he spoke, so elegant, so poised, it left no space for doubts or discrimination. No one ever dared to look him in a different way than they did all of us, mostly because he would never put himself in a position to accept that to happen. Even so, the times were morphing into something unrecognisable in fast track and an assertive posture would keep no one safe.

And neither would blood alone. My family name would not be worth anything if I didn't act accordingly with what was expected of me, if I didn't defend my colours, per se. 

With that thought in mind a primal extinct of survival took over me and the next words left my mouth like escaped fugitives on the run from my improved moral compass, born out of the dark corner of desperation, crafted together with the shambles of the girl I once was.

“You’re being absurd. I despise their very existence, same as you. I couldn't be arsed with what happens to Granger or any other. I merely wished to spare my peers the botter of having to deal with those Gryffinfor angered hounds in the aftermath. Granger was not worth the trouble, nor the time, there were better, less hideous Mudblood girls out there for them to have their fun with, ones that wouldn't cause even half of the commotion.”

When I finished my little speech a slick smile covered Theodore's face and I noticed his eyes focused on something behind me, a mean, perverse gleam to them. 

Before I even turned I knew whose face I was about to encounter and oxygen turned to cement clogging my airs. This time, when amber orbs met mine they were overflowing with a foreign emotion, one that took me a moment to match to a name. When I did, the very notion coursed through my body with an acute, staggering pain and I felt as if I had been fully electrocuted. Hurt and betrayal stared me down, my existence reducing to mere ash, embarrassment and regret swallowing me whole.

Nothing ever made me feel as worthless as I felt then. 


	6. Crash of the waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay with the chapter, I've been finishing my degree and that was kind of really time consuming. Small chapter, but to make up for that and the delay I'll post the next one until monday, promise.  
Enjoy!

**Chapter 6 - Crash of the waves**

**Pansy's POV**

The sun timidly peeked through the darkness, resilient still against the ever more pressing onslaught of the clouds. 

The desire to enjoy the sunny weather and the gripping need to distract myself from my personal stormy skies lead me here, to the bleachers of the quidditch field, distractedly flipping through the book I bought, ever so often sparing a sideway glance to the mess of bodies moving about the air. 

My mind was in a chaotic fire alarm state. Stray thoughts running around, clashing against each other, all overcome with a desperation to flee or find asylum in a place where it did not hurt, where it did not feel as if the sky was falling down in burning embers. I wanted to kick myself. Every small step forward with Hermione, if any had been accomplished at all, were harshly erased the moment the words left my mouth. Panic at been overwhelming at the time, and my survival instinct took over. Perhaps, there had been no other solution, as it seemed at the time. But I wished, Merlin, I would tear a limb to go back and try to find another way. 

I felt the shards cut deeply into my flesh. Twice shattered glass, tiny silver things, so pointy, so sharp. 

I was so lost on thought that I didn't even noticed the practice ending and Draco appearing beside me.

"Would you stop sulking about already? It looks like you're the one being puppeteered around by the dark lord." 

"I am not sulking." - I snarl at Draco, barely fazed by his nonchalant mention of such a serious issue amidst my heavy and undeniable sulking. 

"Sure you are. I could see the worry wrinkles in your forehead from all the way up there. Premature aging is the one true catastrophe you should worry about."

I ignore him all together, with no will to discuss neither my mood nor my skin. 

"How was quidditch practice anyhow?"

He raises an eyebrow, "You were standing right here, didn't you see?"

"I have better things to do than pay attention to the lot of you idiots flying around throwing balls at one another." - comes my scuffing response. 

"No one would guess, since you come to watch nearly every practice." -there is a side way smirk directed at me - "Or is it just to watch me look striking with the wind on my face while I do flawless prowesses up in the air?"

"Darling, don't flatter yourself. I have a social standard to uphold. Besides, you know the answer is yes." 

The exchange concluded in easy, open smiles, his actions around me unburdened and light ever since the dark corners of the castle had been stage to his confession. And even if all of it was still carving deep, dark circles around his eyes and draining his energy from within, my chest felt less heavy whenever I saw glimpses of his jovial self, a sign his spirit was still alive and a hymn of hope that so it would remain. 

"Anyhow, Uqhart is still being a proper twat. But I'm ignoring him mostly, so he just huffes and puffs around like some classless baboon." - I laugh, the description beyond fitting - "We should get going. It's getting chilly out here and I want to get to dinner early, need to catch up on some homework."

\--------

Hermione wouldn't even spare a glance my way. It felt ironic, anecdotic even, but I had grown to find comfort in the way her eyes not longer shied eye from mine in the last couple of weeks, either defiance or curiosity softly burning in her irises. Friendliness was absent, a far stretch, something that tasted unattainable still. But optimism had simmered low in my belly, I could see a path ahead, covered in tall, impenetrable vegetation. But a path nonetheless, and in my muscles I could feel the strength to conquer it. 

Now, her treatment was harsher than before. There was no more disdain. Only the ghost of those eyes, staring me down in anger and betrayal. The ghost of those eyes, whenever she stood, always with her back to me. The ghost of those eyes every time she refused to acknowledge my existence. The ghost of those eyes in my insomnia; when I sleep; in the middle of a class she wasn't even in; in the morning, pushing food around in my plate; in every detail of my day, those eyes hung, haunting. 

I wanted to apologize, but had no idea how to even go about it. So I kept sulking, trying to catch her eyes and convey how sorry I was in a shared look. But no such luck. 

  
  
  


**Hermione's POV**

"_ Expelliarmus _."

A flash of light erupts from my wand and Ginny's wand is flying halfway across the room. The disarming is effective, but the force exerted was of such extent that it leaves some collateral damage. Ginny whines in pain, clutching her hand, a prominent scratch on it, "Merlin's sake, 'Mione. Take it a little easier."

Harry, attracted by the noise, is quick to come to assistance, "Excellent job, 'Mione. Just, ah, remember we're only practicing. No need to tear anyone's limb out."

The softness in his eyes still lingers when all he focus on is fiery red hair, but it is interwined with hesitancy now, not quite sure how to proceed, how far to reach without overstepping. 

"Are you okay, Gin?"

"Ah, yeah, Harry. It's just a scratch." - Ginny too is awkward in her approach, unsure how to act. 

"Can I, uh, take a look?"

She starts dismissing him, and Harry is too slow to mask the fall of his face into disappointment and sorrow. And I can guess, without any legilimency, that it is the fact that she would refuse even his friendly help due to the delicate situation they find themselves in; the fear that their friendship falls into decay because she is uncomfortable around him. Ginny is not oblivious to it and soon outstretches her hand for him to look. 

"Hmm. It doesn't seem too serious." - Harry mumbles in concentration - "Let me just…" - while bringing the tip of his wand to rest against her skin, a silent enchantment swimming over her hand, the edges of the wound coming together smoothly, smooth tissue, no scar in sight. 

Once it is finished, both marvel at the result. Harry, proud of his handy work; Ginny in awe of the healed tissue. 

"Wow. Thanks, Harry! It's as good as new. When did you get good at healing spells?" 

He blushed slightly, but seems to just be content with the fact she is okay. 

"Thought it might come in handy in a war. Hermione shouldn't have to heal us all alone. Besides, I doubt you'd let her touch you now."

Instinctively I want to protest, offended with his insinuation, but fast remember Ginny clasping her hand after I nearly blew it off.

"I'm so sorry, Gin. I don't know how that happened. But still, I resent that implication. You know I'm perfectly capable, and safe, when it comes to healing magic."

They both laugh and it only furthers the pout I already felt forming. 

"Sure you are 'Mione. It'd be a honour to be healed by you. But maybe in a day you're not so keen in blowing stuff up, yeah?" 

Ginny says it all through a wide, teasing smile and I try to scowl in response but feel the easiness of banter with them spread throughout my taut muscles. Momentarily, all thoughts of anger and betrayal recoil into a corner of mind where they can not bother me, where I wish they'd stay. 

  
  


\--------

  
  


The moon's glow illuminated the marble I walked upon, odd shadows dancing at my feet. Odder shadows parading around my brain, always ending in the same distorted tone of green and black. The hallways inside my skull were sinuous and hazardous paths I had never considered before, was not even aware existed or could be travelled. And now somehow I found myself incapable of halting the progress of my thoughts, of controlling their fast extension to areas I wished to maintain in ignorance. 

I felt foolish, to put it kindly, that the thought that Pansy Parkinson could have a heart underneath those lifeless eyes, that she had some good in her, that perhaps, her weird actions were not part of a malicious plan to hurt me but rooted in good intentions, had ever even occurred to me. 

A shame for the coined brightest witch of her age. 

To some degree I felt betrayed, a feeling that left me bewildered with myself, a sign that I had raised some expectations. Expectations to what, I couldn't say. But after she intervened in my behalf against Goyle and Crabbe, I thought… Well, I don't know for certain what I thought, what I expected, but certainly not the words that left her mouth days latter. Not that level of hate again. I thought maybe that kiss all those months ago came from a place that wasn't dark or evil, but rather scared and hidden. 

I shook my head forcefully. Those thoughts were fruitless, merely a waste of mental capacity. I had my reassertion that she remained the same arrogant, evil, belligerent bully. That was it, the end of it. 

A light at the end of the hall caught my attention. It came from a classroom that ought to be closed at this hour. Most likely a couple doing promiscuous things and trying to evade curfew and Prefect's rounds. 

I puffed, annoyed, _ just what I wanted right now. _ As I approached the door I prayed only not to catch them in any improper setting, the embarrassment of having to scold them would be sufficient for both. 

The silence in the air and the scenario I expected to find didn't match correctly, and a part of me grew suspicious that maybe it wasn't such a improper activity in terms of sexual conduct, but rather the evil planning kind, and that thought put me much more alert. 

When I did enter the room what I did not expect to find was a peaceful Pansy Parkinson leaning over some books, so engrossed in what she was reading that my presence went unnoticed. 

Despite the fact the situation seemed harmless I felt my nerve endings sizzle more intensely than they had before when I thought I was going to face some dangerous evil. All the frustration, betrayal and anger I felt before came rushing back on a fury, impairing my judgement, and instead of calmly informing her that she was breaking curfew and needed to leave, I growled out her name, my voice and my stance making me sound like a werewolf to my own perception.

“Oh Hermione, hello.” - there was that friendly tone again. She glanced at the watch and looked seemingly surprised by the hour. - “I got caught up on reading and didn't take notice of the late hour. I'll take my leave now, I'm sorry.”

The lightness in her words, words that were nothing but polite, angered me further and before I understood what was happening my mouth was running away from my brain and fighting this battle on her own, with no equipment and no plan of defense. 

“I don't know what it is you think you're doing, but you're going to stop right now. If your plan is to humiliate me somehow, it won't work, I am not stupid enough to fall for any of your ploys.” - Her eyes were wide in surprise as I lashed out at her. - “You spent years insulting me and my friends, bullying us relentlessly. You made sure I was aware, since I was 11 goddamn years old, that I was not enough, that no matter what I did or how much I tried I would never belong, I would always be less, I would always have dirty blood. I learned to ignore it, to recognise my worth even in the middle of all your insults. And now you kiss me out of the blue and stop the insults, actually act like a decent human being for once. Actually defend me to your peers. Only to insult me later on, again.” 

I paused for a moment to catch my breath, but as soon as her lips started to part, I restarted my speech, not giving her a chance to retort yet.

“I can't even begin to comprehend what you believe you can achieve with this course of action. To fool me into think you have any form of affection or any sentiment besides unjustified hatred towards me? For what, to humiliate me later?” - she moved to speak and again I didn't gave her the chance - “I can't fandom what is the outcome you wish for, but that you would think I would believe in the idiotic notion that you somehow liked me? That is ludicrous at best.”

“I do.” - her voice breaks through my angered tirade unexpectedly, shocking me.

“What?” - I ask, the two simple words a foreign language to me.

“I like you.” - she said softly at first, and then, after seeing my confusion, more confidently - “I like you and I’m terrified for it. I was an arse for a number of years, and my actions have no possible pardon, I don't know how I could even begin to apologize.”

My head was shaking of its’ own behalf, trying to form a blockade to the information she threw my way, “Liar.”

At the same time she spoke, she advanced towards me cautiously but with grace.

“My feelings for you are incompatible with my world and so I still have difficulty with the coexistence of both sometimes. So much so, that I end up falling back into terrible habits.” - her hand reached my check and cupped it lightly, adding only - “I'm sorry for my words the other day, I didn't mean any of it.” - before her lips met mine for a second time. 

Her kiss was tender and slow, different from last time, different from every other kiss I ever had. But like last time, I couldn't bring myself to respond in the beginning, barely able to comprehend the situation. Inside my ears there were acute sounds ricocheting, loud, piercing screams of alarm, a persistent incentive to leave this situation, to slap Parkinson for claiming a part of me that way without my consent, to leave this room. But for reasons unknown to me I could not react, I couldn't bring myself to flee. 

The moment she started to pull away, instead of the expected flood of relief, a primal instinct took over my body, the rational parts of my brain shutting off and an unexplainable necessity in my muscles propelling me forward. This animal response prompted a guttural moan from my counterpart as I kissed back. There was a desperation in the way we grasped each other, the way our lips chased after one another, leaving barely any room for oxygen. A flame that started deep within my lungs and spread like wildfire to every millimetre of my skin. And so it started a forest fire so tremendous, so overpowering that would leave me reduced to the fine dust powder in my center of mass when it, at last, was extinguished. 

When our mouths finally separated, when, against the threat of the cold reality that was not touching each other, our bodies found the courage to break apart, it felt like forever had passed, but not enough time for the trip I did inside my mind, not enough time to feel as stripped bear as I did, to feel as aged and as lived as I did. To feel so unhinged and dismantled as I did. 

Without a word, I walked anesthetized towards the door and when I got there I gazed at Pansy, barely recognising the girl standing in front of me.

I bid her no goodbye, nothing but the lasting look. She seems to be struggling for a response, words frivolous at a time like this. Worlds pass between us, the rift that separates us filled with unbalanced energy. It is hard to conduct a proper reaction in a situation like this, so out of place you feel stripped bare of all you held certain.

I hesitate, lingering in the doorway for a second longer, before I return, in a daze, to my dorm.

As I lay surrounded by the same people of the last six years, in the same place I had slept for the last six years, I felt so foreign to myself I was certain that if I was to look myself in the mirror in that moment I would not recognise the person standing on the other side.


	7. the first taste of aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all for the feedback, knowing that someone else is enjoying it makes me really want to continue this work.
> 
> Now, enjoy this chapter and happy holidays!

**7th Chapter - the first taste of aftermath **

**Pansy's POV**

It's impossible to stare at the world the same after you tasted heaven. 

That would be the kind of mass consumed cliché I would use to describe how I felt if I was that corny. Based on principle, I stood firmly against such disgusting manifestations of affection. The way I could described was that it feels like all your senses become altered and there is a revolution within. The places that have been shifted can never return to its initial place when the mold itself as been altered.

I spent the following morning smiling, in a daze to the surrounding world, just distracted by the beauty of simply existing. 

A thought like that would have made me nauseous a few months ago, but now the softness in it went unnoticed among the ocean of light in me. 

In my unprecedented enthusiasm I forgot a crucial principle I had learned years before, fill your head with expectations and you'll end up drowning inside your own mind. 

It started unsuspecting enough, a dash of auburn hair turning the corner abruptly when I got into view. Hermione coming in late to potion's class, avoiding my eyes as she hastily sits, apologies falling from her lips. An empty space in front of Potter at dinner.

The first few times I chalked it up to coincidence, an incompatibility of our schedules. I kept searching for a sign of her around only to be met with emptiness in her place. But as time passed the noticeable absence of Hermione from any space that I found myself present in became so blatantly obvious that I could no longer be anything but intentional.

I never saw her in Great Hall or at the library; in the classes we shared together she was uncharacteristically the last one in and the first one out, abandoning the premises as soon as our teacher dismissed us and before I could as much as turn towards her. She wouldn’t spare as much as a glance my way, almost pointedly avoiding the area in the room I was in. If by some slip up on her behalf I was able to catch her eyes she would look away so fast I was left wondering how in the world had she not strained her neck.

Her avoidance hurt far more than I had anticipated and my gloomy mood was now a shadow of the high spirits I had shown just days before.

**Hermione’s POV**

A regular afternoon found me studying in a less quiet than I would’ve preferred Common Room. The surrounding environment was anything but ideal, but for reasons unknown (absolutely in no way related to trying to avoid Pansy Parkinson at all costs) I didn’t feel like going to the library right now.

It was an herculean effort to concentrate on the papers in front of me with all the noise, but I was determined to get the work done here. So I drowned the chatter and read on.

That was until Ron and a couple other blokes from the Quidditch team walked in, their voices loud and disruptive. However it wasn’t their behavior that caught my attention, but rather the words that were being spoken.

“She’s a right bitch, but she’s hot mate. You can’t deny that.”

“Seamus’s right, Weasley” - Dean joined - “Can’t tell me you wouldn’t shag her, given the chance. Just think about those perky lips and what they could do.”

I looked up to see Ron twisting his nose a bit before answering.

“Well, I mean it’s not like I think about shaging Parkinson, she’d probably hex me during it anyhow.” - the name caused my head, that had in the meantime turned back to my work, to snap up abruptly 

“That she probably would.” - the rest of the group laughed loudly. - “But I’m sure you could handle it, mate.”

“Sure could. Show her what a real snake looks like.” - Seamus high-fived Ron at the remark and the display of blant chauvinism made me sick.

Before I could refrain myself I was getting up and walking over to where Ron was sitting, knocking him in the back of the head. 

“Auch, Hermione! What was that for?” - Ron whined, incredulously at me.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, you were being crude. I don't tolerate that kind of behaviour.”

I then proceeded to walk out of the room, exasperated with what had just transpired, leaving behind a whining Ron and a choir of whistles coming from the rest of the boys.

In the distance I could hear some off handed comments about how I was just jealous that Ron spoke about shagging another girl. That I fancied him.

Truthfully the thing that threw me off was that that said girl had been her. That they would speak of her in such vile ways. That they would think about defiling those lips. Lips that hand been in mine less then a week ago. Lips that could certainly do  _ something _ . Something that, even if I couldn't bring myself to admit it, I longed to experience again.

The terror and incredulity that overcame me at that very thought fueled my avoidance of her even further. Scared that her gaze meeting mine would break the little restrain I had left and dismantle me completely.

\--------

“‘Mione, are you okay?” - Harry asked me softly later that evening, concern regarding that afternoon’s problem evident.

“Yes Harry, I’m perfectly well. Why would you ask?”

“I… Well, someone told me about today’s, ah, incident.” - he was always so awkward with his approach to more personal matters, which was, in a way, endearing.

“They were being extremely distasteful, I found it only fit to intervene. It’s not my fault that Ronald cannot accept constructive criticism.”

“Oh, you know how he is, ‘Mione, it’s just talk, he doesn’t mean it…”

“Harry, please! Don’t condone his sexist behaviour. I hold you to higher standards.”

“No, no! That’s not what I meant!” - he stumbles over his own words trying to justify himself to me, his entire face a bright red. - “I just, ah, just wanted to say he didn’t mean it regarding her. Ah, he doesn’t really want to… hum… to touch her in any way.”

I laughed - “Oh, do you think that was my problem with the situation?”

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, adjusting his glasses before answering.

“I thought, well, I thought it was because of Ron.”

“I don’t fancy Ronald, Harry. I don’t understand from where everybody extrapolated that ludicrous idea.” - my voice stern, beyond annoyed with the subject.

“You two are always bickering and it just sort of makes sense. You know, you set him straight, like, keep him grounded. And he makes you laugh and less uptight sometimes.”

“You think I am uptight? It is good to know.”

“No Hermione! Goddamn, that is not what I mean!”

“Look Harry, Ronald is one of my best friends, like you are. Sometimes he is absolutely insufferable, and that is why we quarrel. But that is the extent of it. There is no special fondness there, I assure you. Now I would appreciate it if you could drop that nonsense.”

“Yeah yeah, ‘m sorry ‘Mione.” - He smiles shyly at me, and all my annoyance melts away He is never ill intentioned, such pureness of heart is a rarity.

**Pansy's POV**

Hogsmeade weekends never excited me much, and today was no exception. 

Getting out of the castle didn't help clear the dense air that surrounded everyone in the magical world. The symptoms were collective: shoulders perpetually stiff, words carefully measured, eyes swallowed in black, always glued to the shadows. 

Even among us Slytherins you could see the cracks in our facade. We used satirical humour and exuded false sense of superiority as a blanket to cover the uncertainties we all held, regardless of the surname we carried.

Hermione was still avoiding me. She had been so successful at it that I felt a tinge of admiration amidst the pain. I never knew stealthing to be one of her talents, however it came as no surprise considering she was the brightest witch of our age. And if she was able to never be in the same vicinity as me unless it was obligatory in Hogwarts, she was sure to have no difficulty doing such here.

We found ourselves seated around a table at Hog's Head, the boys drinking Butterbeers, the girls choosing something sweeter and me, always the extravagant, sipping on my firewhiskey on the rocks. This place was our usual preference, less frequented by students than its companion pub, it offered a quiet, free of pestering, environment to chat and get a little bit wasted while we got in each other's nerves.

Draco, who had made himself scarce throughout most of the day, now sat beside me. I had a sinking suspicion what the reason for the disappearance was, but dared not ask further. Our clueless housemates, were not so kind, Nott leading the barely concealed accusatory questioning. 

“You were off with some girl, were you not?” Draco only scoffs in response, and so Nott takes it as an opening to continue - “ Always knew Pansy here wasn’t putting out. All that sassiness is purely for show, when it comes down to business, she’s a prude.”

I resist the desire to punch him senseless, because, well, he’s not wrong. 

“You know I’m sitting right here you tosser. I understand the years of ill-repressed desires to either be or be with my companion left you with some vivid ideas of how our private life is. Private life which does not concerns you in the slightest, furthermore considering that it-”

“Considering that whatever you have envisioned certainly pales in comparison.” Draco interrupts, ensuring that the shambles of our romantic relationship are not exposed. “However I am a gentleman and therefore refuse to speak of private matters between my damsel and myself, so, if you wish, you must remain only with said imagination.” Theodore goes to protest, but before he can, Draco's perfectly clipped voice continues - “And I am flattered by your admiration, but I am not  _ inclined _ in such manner.” 

The entire table snickers at Draco's comment. The slight homophobic undertone to the expression causing a wave of sickness to pass through my stomach and I have to put down my cup, but the wave is matched in equal tones by the realization that the upheld charade of my relationship with Draco continues to spare me most of the interrogation to my odd actions of late, and, most importantly it keeps my family pleased enough not to torment me extensively. And so after the balance of both, the customary uneasiness settles in my gut again. 

I feel a bony hand clutch my leg carefully, right above my knee. And I look to the side to see Draco's thankful eyes staring at me pointedly. I return his gaze with a nod, all that needs to be said resumed in those two gestures.

The matter of Draco's whereabouts that morning is left unattended after the exchange with Nott. And I again withdraw myself of the conversation, tending to my beverage religiously. A loud noise from the entrance snaps me out of my trance, deviating my attention. In the entrance of the bar stands the usual gang of Gryffindors, Hermione and Potter up front. They stall for a while, Hermione's eyes filling with apprehension after spotting me. I watch for a minute as she turns to Potter, most likely urging him to leave. They exchange a few words and after a annoyed puff from Hermione, they enter the bar and choose a table. The way she is sitting places her in my direct line of sight, simultaneously leaving me in her peripheral vision. Her posture is unnaturally rigid, gaze never turning to where I sat. 

A few moments later I see her get up and go to the bathroom and, after a brief hesitation, I got up to follow. 

I had no planned approach, not the vaguest idea of what I wanted to say, but that didn't seem to deter my movement. I was in auto-pilot. As I came to face with the toilet's door, the last barrier standing between me and the confrontation that felt unavoidable at this point, I stalled, my hand pausing mid air, and for that split second I felt the urge to flight. But before I could will my legs in to carrying me back towards the table, the part of me that was now intent on fighting instead of flighting pushed the door forward to reveal Hermione's back in contrast to the cold tile.

She was washing her hands, and after the noise from the door slamming caught her attention, our eyes meet in the mirror she was facing.

My mouth was moving before I ordered it to, like my body was inclined to do today, and words started spewing out of my mouth like an unhinged train advancing through the tracks.

“You know you don’t need to avoid me as if I am the main vector of some deadly disease, Granger. What happened, happened, so unfortunately for you, unless you use a time-turner to go and stop yourself from drooling all over these pink perfect Slytherin’s lips you can’t undo it.” - she continues staring at me, eyes wide as if taken aback by my words - “If you think it was a monumental mistake, it’s your right to do so. We can just act like it never happened, I won’t mention it again and won’t bother you further. You could’ve at least said so to me, because, unlike what you may think, I am not as petty as to not respect such a desire. Besides, I do have some dignity left not to chase after someone who feels repulsed by the idea of having kissed me.”

I sucked in a breath after finishing my rant. Hermione continued staring at me, her expression now cryptically closed.

The seconds stretched around me, engulfing me and circling my throat like an inhumane hand preparing for my final suffocation. Now, that all the courage slipped from my body with my last word, I started to feel cold and exposed. I could feel the throbbing of the wound of vulnerability spreading through my skin like an ulceration, living flesh open to the wind.

I wondered if the conflicting battle of emotions undergoing just underneath my skin was visible to her, wondered if she was even looking close enough to try to see. And just has I wondered, Hermione turned in a sudden blast of moviment. I barely registered her rapid moving body coming in my direction, the look of resolution (our insanity) on her face, I barely registered the first push of her body against mine, the urgency with which her hands gripped my face.

The kiss was urgent and desperate, and fastly terminated as we heard the faint sound of the bathroom’s door moving.

She turned away from me hastily, moving to arrange herself in the mirror, as we both tried to not give away our previous predicament to the invading stranger. 

I was still catching my breath, when she turned to me before leaving and said, in a hushed voice:

“Monday night, after rounds, same place from last time.” 

And with that I was left nodding dumbly to a closed door.

**Hermione’s POV**

Monday came too fast and too slowly. I found myself either yearning for that moment and willing it to never happen. The desire to kiss her and the lack of desire to actually put myself in such situation occupied my mind in equal measure, so it came as no surprise when Monday, after dinner, I still felt unsure regarding my attendance to such encounter. I mulled it over and over as I went to the practice routine of preparing for rounds.

In the end, it was just a facade to prevent myself from having to face the horrible truth: I was thrilled, unabashedly eager for a repeat performance of last time. I came to such conclusion when, nearly 2 hours later, I could barely contain my anger at the misbehaved prats that made my rounds take up double the time they usually would. 

So, the minute after I dealt with the last couple of vandals, I was off running through the castle, discretion thrown to the wind, in the fleeting hope that Pansy still waited there for me. In the hurry I stumbled through the door, nearly falling over myself. 

A stifled laugh came from above and my chest filled with a relief I wasn’t expecting to feel. She was still here.

“I am so sorry, my rounds were absolute terror today.”

“It’s okay. I’ve only been waiting 1 hour and…” - she stares at her watch, before adding - “23 minutes. Barely noticed it.”

Her tone is playful, no hint of malice in it. But I add another “I’m sorry” just to be sure.

It isn’t long before an awkward silence starts to settle in, both of us unsure as what to say, how to direct this interaction. Pansy breaks the silence first, her voice uncharacteristically shy and hesitant.

“So, do you want to…”

“Yes” - I answer, both out of genuine, embarrassing enthusiasm and to spare her the trouble of trying to find a way to say what we both know she is trying to say, without making it look too inappropriate. And then we’re meeting halfway again, the same sort of urgency present, but the movements slow and languid, sign of a time we can, for now, afford.

It isn't until hours later that we part effectively. Lips swollen, a flush that creeps underneath our collars, eyes swallowed by black. The separation is hesitant, and from the moment my lips are met with the cold absence of touch I am struck with the unsettling suspicion that they may never find warmth again unless they are pressed against hers. 

“So, uh, would you fancy maybe, uh, meeting here again?” - Merlin, how eloquence is elusive when one is trying to ask their arch-nemesis if they would like to snog you again.

“Yes!” - her eagerness still catches me off guard and my surprise must be evident, because she blushes a deeper shade of crimson, and continues in a much more subdued tone - “Perhaps, next friday?” 

I rushed to answer positively, only to remember I have a D.A. meeting friday, unfortunately.

“I can’t friday, sorry. How about thursday?”

“Thursday sounds great.” 

With the next meeting scheduled in our minds, we parted, each heading to their respective room.


	8. Oxymoron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
Just a bit of a warning before we start the chapter. You must have noticed the rating already, and even if no part of the story has justified it yet, I do intended to include some more explicit scenes. This chapter as some mild smut (?), I guess, just so you know, in case someone is not confortable with that. And more scenes are to come, but I'll try to make a warning here to be safe everytime.
> 
> Good readings!

8th Chapter - Oxymoron

**Hermione's POV**

The meetings continued, their frequency increasing from two times a week, to three times a week and then to a nearly daily routine. We would complete our rounds and then we would meet in that hidden classroom and snog until our lips throbbed from the prolonged contact, until the night finally caught up with us. 

I had stopped avoiding Pansy so avidly, but I still preferred to stay out of her way if given the choice to, mostly due to the fact that seeing her meant being faced with the overwhelming want I felt towards her. A emotion so deeply seated, a desire so intertwined with the tissue I was made of, that denying it felt like denying myself in a way. The first few times, as soon as I woke up in the morning and my rational brain took inventory of the past night’s events, a wave of nausea had rocked my being, and I had actually feared my stomach's’ contents would end up right on my blankets.

The nausea had subsided somewhat, however I hadn’t been able to make peace with the fact that I desired an awful human being such as Pansy Parkinson, couldn’t conceive a future in which I would, couldn’t conceive any future in which this reality continued. 

Pansy, for her part, was as nice as I could recall, as anyone could recall. The sudden disappearance of her meanstreak a recurrent topic of conversation around our table, one in which my participation was scarce at best.

We never exchanged more than a few words when we got together, conversation seeming like an exercise in futility when we both clearly knew what we wanted. 

Despite this oxymoron of emotions and despite the inexistent advance towards resolution of this self hatred I had developed in respect to the part of me that craved Pansy, things between us seemed to go further every encounter. A new line that I hadn't even considered before being crossed every time I caught fire under her touch.

That was how I found myself in such a predicament: I was on her lap, legs clutching around her waist. She had one hand firmly placed on my bosom, kneading the flesh there. The other was underneath my shirt, drumming along my side, playing my ribcage's saliencies like piano keys. Had I not been so clouded by arousal and I might have wondered if she played, but all I could think was how I needed her closer, how I needed more, how I needed things I couldn't even name. 

My hands clutched aimlessly at the soft curve of her neck, at her shoulders, at the fabric of her collar, at every tangible surface I could find, just trying to find something to ground me. 

“Pansy…” - my voice was breathless. 

She hummed in recognition of my calling, the vibrations of her voice thrumming along my neck, which she was currently kissing, and eliciting a moan from me. 

“What'ya want Hermione?” - her words were muffled against my skin, and after she said them she went right back nibbling against my pulse point.

“I…. I… Merlin” - her tongue ran soothingly along the skin she had been previously abusing. Her right thumb softly outlined the curve underneath my breast. - “Please.”

“Please what darling?” - the term of endearment caused another wave of arousal to curse through me and jolt me forward in a vain attempt to procure further contact. - “You need to verbalise it Hermione, otherwise I won't know.”

“Touch me.” - out came my choked plea. 

“As you command.” - her hand covered my left breast and squeezed lightly, foundling it. The sound that ripped through my throat was feral, worthy of the wildest beasts. But in the throes of arousal I couldn't be bothered.

My nipples were uncomfortably hard, so much so, I was sure she would be able to feel them through my bra. My suspicion was confirmed when her thumb caressed my peak making me whimper pathetically.

She continued her ministrations, simultaneously alternating between sucking, nibbling or licking my neck, and starring transfixed at the outline of her hand moving beneath my shirt. The tumult of colour swirling inside me felt like some kind of magic I never been privy to before, and so all I could do was praise her for it.

“Merlin, Pansy.”

\--------

It would appear Ron had begun a relationship with Lavender Brown, sometime in the recent past. The information caught me by surprise, to say the least - either it had been an incredible abrupt development or I was so blind in the all-consuming vortex that was Pansy's presence and Pansy's lips and my guilt-ridden self recrimination for spending most of my time thinking about them.

The fact I was clueless about their romantic involvement was the reason why I was so bewildered whenever I was in the receiving end of Ron's regretful looks or shy ducks of head, or Lavender's shower of hatred gazes.

Of course, my paranoia fast supplied that she must know about Pansy and me, and every time, for a few moments after her eyes meet mine, I am overcome with anxiety. But not having Ron screaming plagues in my face is a clear sign that my secret remains just that, a secret.

I am finally made aware of the situation when, one night halfway through dinner, Ginny casually makes a teasing comment about them. Ron becomes a weird mix between pale and crimson at my confused "What?".

"You didn't know? Ron and Lavender are dating." - Harry offers as an explanation.

"Merlin, 'Mione." - Ginny's much less helpful, having her fun with the moment - "Have you been living under a rock? They are all over each other all the damn time."

"I, well, no. I guess I didn't know. Ron didn't say anything."

Ginny turns towards her brother as if looking for an explanation for his omission, but all she gets is a mumbled "She didn't ask.".

The conversation subject shift soon after, but I notice that, throughout the rest of dinner, Ron avoids catching my eyes. 

\--------

A few days later I am still martyrizing myself for thinking about Pansy while simultaneously continuing to think about Pansy, when my path is blocked by Lavender Brown and we proceed to have the most peculiar interaction. Her face is hard set, trying to convey some sort of determination. She fails, almost miserably, looking more like an enraged small animal, body trembling with poorly contained anger and ready to pounce at any opportunity.

She wastes no time caught up in my confused look, before laying down her intentions.

“I can see your intentions from a mile away, but I came to warn you that Ronnie is mine.”

Confusion doesn't clear, if anything it becomes more pronounced.

“What? Ron?” - her attempt at a threat only registers when she points a finger so close to my eyeballs, I fear she might try to pierce one of them.

“Yes, Ronnie and I are together and very happy and in love. So stay away.”

What is with everyone and this notion that I want Ron in any capacity that isn't as my best friend? 

“I don’t understand the purpose of this conversation. But I assure you, Lavender, that I am also very happy for both of you and wish to maintain with Ronald the same friendship we have always had. Specifically, without any kind of romantic interactions.”

She studies my face for a few moments, as if trying to find any trace of falsehood in my affirmation, before huffing, unconvinced but unwilling to press further for now. Then turning and strolling away, her step as furiously determined as when she came.

**Pansy’s POV**

“Parkinson is smiling again.” - Nott says while grimacing at Blaise - “Something is definitely wrong with the world.”

I hadn't been listening to their conversation, caught up in my own daily deliriums, but their commentary managed to grab my attention.

“I know, it makes me highly uncomfortable.”

It's entertaining in a way, having someone be made uncomfortable by my joyous mood. It certainly asserts matters regarding my outside image, even to those that I consider friends. An image I worked to build since I was 11 years old, whose success went beyond what I first envisioned.

“Good.” - my voice has an undertone of darkness to it, playing into the charade they're building.

“I can not place what is happening. She is either plotting some awful fate to the lot of us, or she has gone bloody insane.” - Blaise states in absolute seriousness and for a moment I doubt if that is not what he really believes.

“I'd wager it's a bit of both.” - Draco intervenes, appearing behind me and placing his hands upon my shoulders.

“You will just need to wait patiently and see.” - I have a smirk painted on my face, but there is a playful tone to my words.

The conversation subject dies there and they continue with their bickering, Draco sitting besides me now. 

After a moment Draco touches me softly in the arm in order do get my attention.

“You know, they are right, you've been overly cheerful the past weeks. Something you care to share, darling?”

“Oh, I didn't want to have to tell you this, but… it's merely because I don't have to soil my vision with your pale face as much.” 

“Ah ah, so very amusing. I was under the impression you wept my absence every night, considering how often you complain of it.”

“That is part of the past, Draco darling, I regret to inform you I have moved on.”

He arches his eyebrows and I realize the dubious meaning of my words, a flushing heat already emerging from beneath my collar.

“It would appear so.” he says smugly, already aware he has found a tension point and making sure I knew so. He waits for further commentary from my part but at the lack of it and after having his attention drifted to somewhere else, he merely states, before getting up again- “We shall continue this latter, love.”

No one ever thinks to mention the downsides of continuously and constantly making out with the girl you have a crush on, when said girl is, taking in account social matters, considered your arch-nemesis. The necessity for secrecy is a downside, that can, depending on the perspective, also come as a turn on, but mostly it just becomes annoying having to continue to act as a miserable, bitter, cold human when you feel warm and joyous and bubbly. Feelings you never knew before, that you thought unworthy of you, unladylike even. 

It is a full-time job, and honestly exhausting having to hide my bright mood constantly, so I end up being spotted smiling at random times, much to my dismay and to horror of my fellow colleagues. And I know, from experience, Draco will not leave it alone until he has some answers. Answers I am less than inclined to give him, or rather, I am too terrified to voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you think Draco's suspicion could bring our girls some problems or not?


	9. Slow spreading warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here goes another chapter; mild E warning, nothing big.  
Happy new year, everyone!

**9th Chapter - Slow spreadind warmth**

**Pansy’s POV**

In a much more playful note: the other downside of this arrange, besides still being mostly avoided by Hermione when in public, is the perpetual state of maddening arousal.

Our sessions, marvellous as they are, light in me a fire each time more intense and closer to devouring me whole. We have not gone beyond heavy foundling and some discret grinding, which means that said fire is never put out or controlled in any way. So I leave that classroom with drenched knickers and an overwhelming, suffocating need for relief. I have had to resort to magic to turn my knickers salvageable, such is the damage.

A torturous bliss: the most fitting description to such feeling. Every nerve ending buzzes, an incessant clamour for the placation of their needs. A thousand voices call out her name in choir, the timber desperate, aching. 

I try to lay still, try to will my mind to quiet and my body to sleep, but my hand twitches at my side. Waves of unabashed arousal pass through me; the direct effect of the images playing in my mind: Hermione's face twisted in pleasure, her lips parting and molding around the faintest moan; her hands restlessly traveling through the surface of my body, unrelenting but indecisive on where to stop; her hips moving against me, unrestrained in pursuit of something she couldn't even name. 

I see her as vividly as when I was in that moment, laying on top of a desk, sprawled out and  _ oh _ so inviting. Her hair disheveled, her tie undone, the first buttons of her shirt popped open to reveal her freckled skin, her heaving chest; her piercing gaze, staring directly into my soul as I stood above her. 

I can still feel the hot spot where her mound touched against my leg, when even through the layers of fabric I could distinguish perfectly the heat radiating from her center, could feel how she burned for me. The moment replays in my head without authorization, and I am rehearing the promiscuous sound that escaped her mouth at the contact, I am feeling again the way her hips surged upwards, procuring further pressure and ground against my thigh. I am reliving the way I nearly combusted at how turned on the entire situation made me.

I catch the moan that formed in my lungs right on time and turn the sound in a mere undignified whimper. A sound easily lost in the murmur of the dorms. I squeeze my thighs together instinctively, unable do suppress the chill that prickles through my spine. 

The eerie quiet betrays the long hour of the night, but I feel as wide awake as I would in the middle of the day. I had gotten back from a late night rendezvous with Hermione, the physical memory of it still alight in my skin, the hour following my return found me willing, begging my body to calm down. The thoughts of unpleasant things, the blunt refusal of giving in to any kind of relief, were all to no avail, as I found myself, at almost 2 a.m., painfully aroused, a feeling that showed no signs of diminishing. 

Go against enough pressure, and eventually, even the strongest willed resistance caves in and surrenders. And so, I did. 

To start, I brought my hand to my breast, foundling as she had, revisiting her touch. I didn't tease myself for long, it felt unnecessary after hours of enduring this feeling, of experiencing her and reliving it in my mind. My suspicion was proven right when I was met with abundant wetness between my legs. An exploratory touch to my clit and a spark of pleasure ran through me at such intensity I felt I had been electrocuted. 

It didn't take long; just a few, quick flicks of my bundle of nerves and I was contracting and spasming in pleasure, biting my forearm to prevent my noises of bliss from getting out. 

Afterwards I lay, still unsatisfied somehow. The relief had been good, but not enough, not given by the right touch. 

It was enough to quiet my body, and as I fell asleep in a post-orgasmic haze, all I could think was how my being still yearned for her, and only her could give this pulling need relief.

  
  


**Hermione’s POV**

Harry somehow managed to fall of his broom during quidditch practice. From what I'd been told there had not been any major injuries, but he was still dragged to the infirmary for observation. Ron was inside with him, adamant in not leaving Harry's side unless someone dragged him away physically. Ginny had been responsible for wrapping up practice after the incident, so she wasn't here yet. That left me to pace outside the door, alone, my mind reeling with thoughts of worry and frustration because they kept playing this reckless game and kept getting hurt, no matter how many times I tried to reason with them that it was dangerous. 

I am so absorbed in my own mind, I don't hear her approach.

"Hello."

I turn around startled even if the voice is soft and careful.

"Pansy," - I breathe out - "what are you doing here?"

"I heard about Potter. Wanted to give my get well soon wishes." - she doesn't seem to be mocking the situation, nor insincere, even if, due to her history, her words don't register as believable at first. 

My uplifted eyebrow is a clear sign of distrust. Adding that to her ever surprising self-awareness, and she knows. 

"I mean it." - there is no room for uncertainty in her voice, and that cements it. I wonder, not for the first time, when I have come to trust the words tha leave Pansy Parkinson’s mouth - "Besides that, I also wanted to tell you that it's okay if you don't come tonight. I totally understand if you wanna stay with your friends. Tomorrow as well, if you want. I'll still be in ou-" - The  _ our _ , the word that was clearly in the tip of her tongue, hangs in the air between us, even if she caught herself before she let it slip. It is heavy, the implication of the proposition far beyond its' three letters. I am tryig to avoid her eyes when I first notice the small vial she is holding. I barely have time to wonder about it though, as she is fast to clear her throat and redirect my attention - "the classroom, I like to study there. It's quiet. So, whenever you want, just show up." 

Amidst the worry and the hurry, running towards here, trying to reel in my running train of thoughts, the meeting we had planned for tonight completely slipped through the cracks into forgetfulness. My knee jerk reaction is guilt at having forgotten about her, about us. I assume she came to find me to ease my worries, probably thinking that I had been torn between our plans and wanting to spend the time looking after Harry; when, in reality, I had not even spared her a second thought after news about the fall came to my knowledge. The second thing I feel is warmth. Slow spreading, tickling my insides.

If she recognises any of the emotions, she is gracious enough to not comment on it.

"Ah, yeah. Thank you." - I don't specify what I'm thanking her for; I am not sure I fully know the extent either. Rationally expecting her to take it as a thank you for wishing Harry a fast recovery; irrationally hoping she understands is more than that. 

"One last thing." - she exuded an air of certainty, albeit shy, before, but now, her whole demeanor changes, a nervous energy radiating off her now - "I got you this." - the small vial that I noticed before is now presented in front of my face, a purple looking liquid slouching inside - "It's for Potter. A sort of healing potion." 

My alarm at the offer must be noticeable, since she is quick to add. "Again, this is also not poisoned."

"Thank you, but I-" - my confusion doesn't diminishes and I still don't know what to make of all this - "I don't even know exactly what his injuries are and besides, Madam Promfrey should give him somet-".

"Yes, I know Madam Promfrey will for sure give him all the appropriate healing potions for his injury, and most likely instruct him to stay out of the pitch and rest for two weeks or so, no?"

I nod my head. It does seem like the reasonable counseling for this kind of situation. 

"Well, if Potter's anything like Draco when it comes to quidditch the best you can hope for is a two-three day rest period and then, as soon as the discomfort is manageable enough, he'll be up in the air, ignoring every advice otherwise."

She stops, waiting for any sort of confirmation from me. I am not any less sceptical, but nod again, urging her to continue.

"Well, this potion is for that, works as a protective charm of sorts. It's an ointment, you rub it over the affected area before a practice and it will help with soreness or stiffness throughout the exercises and also assures that the physical exertion doesn't compromise the appropriate healing of the injury." 

"Wow, that is quite amazing actually." - I stand in awe, never before having heard of a potion like this. The applications for this in the sport industry are endless, and I wonder why is it not more well-known or publicized. - "How did you come across it?"

"I tinkered a recipe that was in one of my father's books about healing."

"So, you created it?" - I am amazed enough by the fact that I don't even think about the fact that some risks may arise from not being something peer-reviewed.

"Yeah, I guess so. Don't worry though, I have tested it on Draco before. It's safe."

A smile breaks through my face, and if I am a little alarmed at the fact I did not even doubt her capabilities as a potion brewer or her did not question her intentions, did not consider she may be planning to use Harry as a guinea pig, I don't let it show.

"Thank you so much, Pansy. You didn't have too."

She shrugs her shoulders, nonchalantly. 

"It was no trouble. I have a bunch stocked up for Draco, just in case. I could spare this one."

The warmth has spread to engulf all my body, threatening to overwhelm every part of me. I try, as hard as I can, to dismiss it as appreciation at how considerate she is being. But looking at her slightly crooked head, smiling shyly at me I feel like the true nature of the feeling might just suffocate me. 

A noise inside the infirmary breaks the moment and amidst the waves of warmth I am so relieved at the branch of reality that allows me to get back afloat. 

Pansy gestures vaguely to the door behind me - "You should probably see how he is. I am gonna go now."

"Yeah, I, uh, thank you. Really, Pansy." - the desire of hugging her comes so suddenly I almost get whiplash.

"Told you already, no problem. You can pay me back latter." - she calls over her shoulder, a smirk obvious in her voice.

A few minutes must go by with me still standing, looking at the space she just left behind, before I am brought out of my reverie by Ron's voice.

"Hermione. You're here."

I turn, smiling at him - "Of course. How is Harry?"

"He is resting now. Madam Promfrey said it was a sprain of the ligaments or something. He'll be alright, but has to take it easy with quidditch for awhile."

"That's good news, Ron. He'll be alright, so why do you look so put off?"

He slumps over himself, sadness dripping from his words - "It was all my fault. I was so angry with Lavender and I just kept kicking the quaffle left and right, not even trying to grab it, not even paying attention to where I was throwing the damn thing. And Harry was just supervising some drills, unsuspecting, and I had to hit him with the it." 

How can guilt and regret, even misplaced, reduce a person to such a small entity. His presence ten folds smaller, as he tries to escape within himself. 

"Oh Ron, you didn't mean it. It was an accident." - I reach over, squeezing his hand, trying to offer some comfort.

"Yeah, but if I was paying more attention, if I wasn't so hotheaded…"

"It's no use thinking about that now. I'm sure Harry will be more upset at you for blaming yourself than because of what happened."

My arm encircles him now, barely big enough to wrap around both his arms and his back. 

"I guess…" - still, he deflects into himself, not sounding the least convinced. 

"Why were you so upset with Lavender anyway?"

That seems to liven him up instantly, the anger he mentioned before surfacing again. He moves from my embrace and turns to face me, all flustered, rambling, tripping over his words.

"She told me what she did. I'm so sorry, 'Mione. So sorry." - he scratches the back of his head, eyes not quite meeting my own now. - “I had no idea she was going to be this ridiculous and I was so mad when she told me and -”

“It’s okay Ron, don't worry.” - I smile sweetly at him when he finally meets my eyes. - “I think she intended no harm, she was just… insecure.”

“Still it gives her no right to go and -”

“Really, it's okay. I'm not mad. And you definitely don't need to get so worked up over it either.” - I squeeze him again to reaffirm my statement and he sighs in relief. 

“You're the best 'Mione.” - he is smiling a bit now and before I can return the praise I am engulfed in a full body bear hug.

“You too.” - My response comes out muffled against his chest as I hug him back.

"Now lets find Ginny and see if we get back before Harry wakes up."

  
  


**Pansy's POV**

Another week elopes before Draco has the chance to corner me with questions again. 

I am just lounging around the dungeons, distractedly making my way through a book of healing magic, my mind occupied with brown.

“So, who is the bastard?”

I am startled by him, nearly jumping out of my skin. The tachycardia installed from the fright is maintained by the wave of anxiety that drowns me due to the subject.

“I have no knowledge of who you’re referring to, darling.”

“The individual that has been making you smile like a ridiculous adolescent. I should say I’m wounded, you were never quite so smitten when I was concerned.”

I feel desperate to escape this constricting situation, my flight response fully activated now. However, I find myself without any plan of procedure. So feigning ignorance is the best way to stall.

“Don’t be delusional, there is no individual whatsoever.”

Both of his eyebrows raise to his hairline, his expression screaming  _ “I don’t buy it one bit” _ . 

I am terrified of this subject. Terrified of the questioning. But mostly I am terrified of having Draco asking those questions. I have always been the most open with him, the most vulnerable, the most exposed. He knew depths of me no one else did. I hide things from him, sure, but I never lied to him directly, especially in a subject as important as this one. But now, anything even remotely close to the truth is certain suicide, my damnation.

“Come one Pans, I mean, I’m still your  _ boyfriend _ , for all intents and purposes.” - he signals the word boyfriend with air quotation marks and there is a revolting swirl in my gut at using him like this. - “I’m okay with it, really. It facilitates matters for both of us. And we never were the most passionate couple. However, I do believe I am deserving of such type of informations about your personal life. If nothing else, for the sole reason of being your best-friend.”

He is not incorrect, he is my best, most trusted friend. I am certain I can confide in him in nearly every situation. Unfortunately this specific matter falls right outside of such circle. It has the capability of imploding my entire existence, in all truthness such destruction is unavoidable. I am aware. I have been aware that the first draft of my death note was written with that impetuous kiss, and my fate was firmly sealed the day I followed her to the bathroom to spit that raw, mad piece of my heart. Maybe I had been doomed since the point the percentages of hatred and admiration had tipped scales in my own personal repertoire of Hermione Granger, years back, maybe since the first time I saw her, even in the distance.

Regardless, I would avoid the disclosure of such subject for as long as I was physically, mentally and magically able to.

“Draco, there is no one. Please just drop it.” - my tone is harsh, uninviting.

He scrunches up his face, knitting his eyebrows together. He is debating whether to press forward or to respect my request. He lets out a breath and I know he has decided in the later, thankfully.

“As you wish, darling. But you should be aware that I will hold no judgment. Not towards you.” - He smiles sympathetically and squeezes my shoulder. - “Just don’t go shagging Potter, that would just be vile. He isn’t even attractive.”

My first instinct is to laugh quite unceremoniously at the absurdity of the idea. But the slight lift in my mood is fastly quelled by how close he actually is of the truth, that if he where to turn to Potter’s right side he would’ve been spot on.

“God, that’s revolting. Thank you, Dracs, but I’ll leave the shagging of scarhead to your jurisdiction.”

Draco puffes indignantly, a death glare meeting my playful gaze halfway. This sort of harmless jabs never fail to rile him up spectacularly, ever since the second year or so, when it became a running joke between us (much more entertaining to me than to him). In the current conjecture of Britain’s wizarding world, such jokes were much more risky and precarious, and so I refrained from saying them most often. 

This moment however felt like going back to a previous time of carefree banter, when our biggest concern was how to upset Potter and his gang next, and not the burden of our existence and future as individuals and in the very world we lived in.


	10. a breath away from reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! First of all, thanks so much to everyone that is still reading this fic and everyone that has left comments or kudos. Your feedback always make my heart soar.
> 
> Secondly, I wanted to know your opinion on something. When I first thought out this fic I planned something somewhat long, more of a continuous story with a bigger focus on 6th year and the build up of their relationship, but continuing into 7th year and maybe the future. Mostly because for me, considering the circumstances they are in, it makes sense to explore how all that would affect Hermione and Pansy as individuals and as a couple, of course.   
So I wanted to know if you think you'd still be interested in reading something like that or if you'd rather something shorter.  
Thank you again!

**10th Chapter - **a breath away from reality 

**Hermione’ s POV**

Things were settling in to a place of fictitious calm. 

Harry was recovering nicely from his injury. Just as expected, he was back in the pitch after two days, and while I still reprimanded him greatly for it, I was much less worried, all due to Pansy's potion. He had been singing so many praises to it that I was sure it worked; thanking me beyond necessary and at every opportunity for it, telling me how I should patent the recipe, how it would be a sure it in the sports industry. When asked how I obtained the "miracle potion", the answer that I had brewed it from an old book I found in the back of the library, thankfully sufficed. 

Furthermore he had also ceased his mopping about, focusing his energies in his newly rediscovered obsession with Malfoy. And if I found that a tad worrying, I was too relieved to not having him curse his very existence over the loss of Ginny to actually intervene. 

Ginny was a bundle of energy and happiness has I had never seen before. She would fly and play Quidditch and hang out with Luna and burst into a room contagiating everyone's’ mood. I was none the wiser as to what triggered this change in behaviour, and even if curious, I settled for knowing that she was content.

Ron and Lavender were still together. My reference for comparison was very limited since I only figured out they were dating halfway through their relationship, but their dynamic appears to be tense. Lavender has intensified her angered stares towards me (or perhaps I’ve become more aware of them now that I understand what motivates them). It makes time spent in the dorm rather uncomfortable, even if our other roomates try to appease it with some pitiful sympathy. Ron, however, stopped avoiding me so intently, fortunately.

It all feels almost normal, or as normal as things can be.

And even if the hurricane of feelings inside of me kept on spiralling viciously and ripping from the fragile roots of certainty I tried to plant, I found a way to compartmentalise it and seal the box and ignore its existence. A rather successful approach.

Or so I thought.

“Draco has been asking questions about my dilliances. He suspects I might be intimately involved with someone.”

But there goes Pansy Bloody Parkinson unburying the box and ripping its’ lid with her damn teeth.

“He  _ what? _ ” - we had been midway through a voracious make-out session, but at the mention of this possibly getting out I hastily disentangle myself from her, taking two steps backwards.

“He suspects there is an someone in my life. An intimate someone. Has no clue regarding said individual’s identity, however.”

I release a sigh of relief, but the state of alertness does not fade.

“You won’t tell him anything, will you?”

“I reckon not, but he is my dearest friend and a stubborn fool, he will keep insisting.”

“Well, you keep on denying it. And maybe try to be more careful before you get us into a distasteful situation.” - I am aware of the roughness of my voice, how I sound more menacing than cautionary. The sound traveling through the air so foreign, I don't recognize it as coming from myself. It sounds like someone else, someone I hear far away from where I stand, removed. 

Pansy’s eyes narrow slightly and she tilts her head slightly to the right - “I am sorry I am in a content mood because of our encounters. Would you rather I sulked afterwards?”

I recognise the challenge in her words, and, as it always is with this girl, I am incapable of stepping down.

“I would prefer if you could keep your discretion in order to avoid your terrible friends from finding out. We both have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

**Pansy’s POV**

Hope was a newly discovered feeling; something I had brought together from scraps of my darkness. Something I had toyed with, sometimes with disregard, sometimes overzealously, just as a kid that is still learning how strong is too strong; how to hold tight enough to keep, and loose enough not to break. And maybe, finding a healthy balance of hope is an utopia, and no magic can balance that ever unbalanced scale.

And so, for the first two hours I play around with it, throwing hope around to the wind that blows in this four wall room. I had cracked the window open slightly a hour ago, I believe - the prickly cold masquerading the growing claws of disappointment. 

It is around the fourth hour of waiting that I yield and go back to the dungeons. 

And still I hold on, grip too strong, letting hope embed its edges in my skin, tearing, ripping, slowly. It’s possible that she had a last minute emergency and had no way of warning me. It is a perfectly reasonable explanation. However, the way we left things at our last encounter tells me otherwise.

After Hermione’s comment, the room around us seemed to constrict, walls closing in on both of us; the path from me to her, that was before clear, now was strained and rough. We had left, not long after. Words strained and not enough; every action short and harsh. There had been no promises of tomorrow, or the day after. There was not a confirmation of the hour. There was barely even a goodbye.

And still, I came at the usual hour. I came and I waited alone in the dim lit room for hours, only to leave holding hands with disappointment and fractured hope.

  
  
  


**Hermione’s POV**

Contrary to what happened when they began their relationship, Ron comes to find me to tell me when he and Lavender break up. As soon as he tells me, I gather myself, setting aside my sour mood in order to be a good friend.

But as he speaks, he sounds detached about the whole thing, a sorrow that doesn't quite reach his eyes swimming aimlessly in the air.

I look at him sympathetically and utter an “I'm sorry Ron.” that he doesn't look like he needs, but seems fitting anyway. 

“Things just weren't working. It's better this way.” - he shrugs.

I reach over and hug him tightly as comfort, and he hugs me back. Everything about this is familiar. Everything about him is familiar. The way his head towers over mine, the way his fingers flex slightly as they wrap around my shoulders, the way he smells musky and a bit sweaty. And even if the main purpose of the physical contact was to comfort him, I forget it for a few moments, reveling in the normalcy of it all, a feeling I nearly forgot. 

“Thank you, you always make everything better 'Mione.”

\--------

Normalcy is a quickly shattered illusion, when you don't fit into it anymore. 

“Don't stop.” - the sound reverberated through my muscles. 

“Don't stop.” - the uncharacteristic raspiness of the voice trickled down my skin. 

“Don't stop.” - I was no longer sure whose voice was it, our moans tangled together. I was only aware of ivory skin and my freckles spilling on it, of raven air and my hands anchored on it, of forest green sucking the oxygen out of my lungs.

She was everywhere, tangling around me like a python, and me her willing victim. Yearning to be consumed, devoured by her; yearning to devour her too. 

I found the delicate junction between her shoulder and her neck and sucked, intent on leaving a mark for the world to see I had tamed the beast. Simultaneously my hand found her breast and I flicked her nipple. 

She responded eagerly, her hips bucking up and a moan tumbling out of her lips - “Hermione.”

My name being chewed up in her mouth always stirred something in me, where before anger burnt, now it was desire, the desire to have her repeat it a thousand times like a prayer. Tonight however it felt different, the tone wasn't quite right.

“Hermione.” - the letters didn't fit together right. The voice was detached from the word somehow. 

“Hermione.” - it sounded higher pitched, it sounded like Ginny. 

_ Why was Ginny calling out to me? _

Suddenly the body around me dematerialized in a cloud of smoke and my eyes snapped open to the sight of Ginny. Ginny with a raised eyebrow, staring me down confused. 

I wasn't naked. Pansy wasn't here. She wasn't moaning my name. I wasn't kissing her, hadn't been since we had that disagreement three days ago.

“You okay, Hermione?” - Ginny voice was soft but inquisitive at the same time - “I came to check on you because you're usually down by this hour and you sounded… distraught.”

I could feel a burning sensation starting beneath my colar and I was sure that if I were to look myself in the mirror I'd see a crimson picture.

“Hm, yeah. I was just dreaming… a nightmare. It was a nightmare.” 

Ginny eyed me suspiciously for a few more moments before conceding. 

“If you need to talk about your dream or anything else I'm here. Now you should get up or you'll be late.” 

“Thanks Gin. For waking me up and, well.” 

“Anytime, 'Mione.”

I hadn't been with Pansy in three days and my subconscious made sure I didn't forget that no matter how much my conscious mind tried to bury the fact. 

My body missed the physical contact and had I been less stubborn about my wants, I might've admitted that other parts of me missed her as ferociously. But denial was still my favourite destination inside myself. 

For now I accepted that my body missed her touch, a fact the incessant throbbing between my legs would not let me deny, and ignored was the dull, much less pleasing throbbing in my chest. It was all just physical after all.  _ Damn hormones _ . 

\--------

I endured two more days of mounting desire and a steadily crumbling stubbornness before I went looking for her. 

When I woke up that day, again drenched in sweat and want, I knew it was unavoidable. There was no escape, I was a mere peasant walking in circles around myself trying to avoid the one way road that lead me back to her. 

The entire day was spent in escalating anticipation, my body tingling 

I flew through my rounds and found myself on the door to our classroom, unsurprised to find it empty. It had been an optimist attempt, with a predictable unsavoury outcome: she wouldn't still be waiting for me even after nearly a week of making myself scarce.

A tinge of disappointment tugged at the corner of my chest and I deflated, feeling defeated. I had no idea where to find her now, I couldn't very well barge into Slytherin's dungeons in search of Pansy Parkinson and answer  _ I need to kiss her or I won't be able to breath  _ when questioned why. 

Apparently my feet decided that I could at least lurk near the entrance to the dungeons in hopes of catching a glimpse of her, having carried me there before I could process what was happening.

About 15 minutes later a glimpse of raven hair told me the search had yielded positive results.

“Pansy.” - I called out tentatively.

She turned around startled, looking around for the source of her name, the confusion in her gaze not dissolving even after she spotted me.

“Hermione, what are you doing here?”

I wasn't sure how to answer, if I was even capable of rationalizing it to words.

“I wanted… I want… to, hm -” - my pathetic mumbling was interrupted by a movement behind Pansy. Her brain caughting up with the situation much faster than mine, she grabbed my arm and after a muffled “come with me” nearly dragged me away to a concealed corner. 

After we were again hidden from sight and our breaths had calmed down enough, she turned to me expectant. 

“You were saying…” - her hand waves in the air, opening the floor for my intervention. 

“I wanted to see you. I went to the classroom but you weren't there -” 

“Do you suppose I should've kept waiting there every night until you decided to grace me with your presence again?” - Pansy’s voice doesn't have the biting, menacing tone it used to have, but it's also lacking the friendliness I've come to, unintentionally, associate with it.

“No, of course not. I figured, well I don't know what I figured, but I guess I hoped I might be lucky and find you somewhere around here.” - I am a babbling mess, grace thrown to the wind.

“Godric Gryffindor himself must be smiling upon you, because you have found me. Now, what?” 

“I hadn't thought it through, in all honesty. I guess I wanted to, you know.” 

Pansy puffs, clearly annoyed by my inability of expressing myself. Reluctancy clings to my cells. I've never said it out loud; I've thought it, I've dreamt it, I've done it. But I've never asked for it, not without being drunk on arousal. Not as the instigator. 

“I actually don't, Hermione. So if you wouldn't mind telling me, that would be fantastic.”

I take a deep breath and try not to swallow the words back down.

“I wanted to kiss you.” - my voice is small and shy, barely above a whisper in the quiet. Pansy heard me however, if the shallow breath she takes is any indication. I realize my eyes have been fixated on her lips, accompanying their movements like a single flame burning bright in the dark. 

She kisses me then. The whine that rips through my throat is mortifying and I can't be bothered. 

We kiss languidly for a while, no rush in our movements. The anxious tension that had built over the past few days slowly slips through my muscles to be immediately substituted by that now familiar pleasant buzz. Pansy is still tense beneath my touch, something rather unusual. Before I can question her on it, she pulls away and eyes me before asking:

“Is that all you want of me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am leaving you all on a cliffhanger. I'm so sorry (or not at all).   
How do you think this is gonna go? Do you think bad or good things are coming?
> 
> (And yes, I know I asked you too many questions in this chapter alone, but just help a girl out - all I really want is your love and approval, as we all do)


	11. the shadow that stayed in the place of her eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back again!  
All your love keeps me warm in this cold ass weather.
> 
> And yes, here comes the drama, 'cause I'm a sucker for it. Don't hate me.

**11th Chapter**** \- **the shadow that stayed in the place of her eyes

**Pansy's POV**

“Is that all you want of me?”

The question escaped my lips before I even thought to voice it. But now that the words hovered between us, heavy and dense, sucking all the oxygen of the room, I wanted to know the answer. I needed to know the answer.

Hermione looked at me eeriely, clearly thrown by my intervention. 

“I am not sure I understand what you’re asking me.”

I exhaled shakily. I wasn’t sure I understood what I was asking either, what answer I was looking for. All I recognized was the necessity to know.

“Is that all that you want from me? To kiss me in dark corners whenever you fancy, to saunter your hands over every curve of my body but still think of me only as  _ Parkinson _ ?” 

Her eyes are blown wide, and for a minute there is only the wind clashing against the castle’s walls, the collision a warning from the universe: how the tides are changing around us.

“I have already stated that I do want to kiss you. Regarding the location of said kisses, I am not sure what you suggest. That we snogg in the middle of the Great Hall?”

The sarcasm in the end of her answers breaks a string inside and the feelings come pouring down, unrestrained. 

“I am serious, Hermione. I’m I only a sex object of sorts or are you actually interested in getting to know me?”

Hermione scoffs. There is a type of fire emerging in the edges of her orbs that I hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime.

“I know you Pansy Parkinson. I’ve known you for years. You made sure I did from the first day I got here. You made sure I never forgot who you were. Who I was not.” 

The words, true as they are, go through my heart like a harpoon. The guilt, the mortification of what I did, a harsh reality thrown in my face like scalding water. A wrongdoing I can never undo, but that I have been trying to compensate for. I battle through the wallowing, _ I am not that person. I am not that person _ . 

“I’m not that person anymore, Hermione. I am terrible sorry for all the pain I’ve brought you, I was an insufferable cunt, I am aware. I can not undo the past yet, unfortunately, but I have been trying to redeem myself and I would like to show you I am different now, if you allowed me.”

I am fumbling for words inside myself, scrambling sentences from what little I’ve rebuilt from the wreckage I’ve been. The fire in her eyes isn’t diminishing, it is not settling.

“People don’t change _ that _ drastically. This - “ - she gestures between us hastily - “is nice. And no matter how much I’ve tried not to desire it, I do. But that is all that this is. It’s physical, it’s hormonal. It’s nothing beyond that and I’d appreciate it if we could maint it that way.”

Suddenly it cascades upon me all at once how that is not sufficient and I let out a bitter, dry laugh.

How I thought it could be, how I thought kissing her in seclusion, whenever she gave me the honor of doing so, could be enough. But the light, the love I’ve let roam unbridled within me has soaked into myself. I realize all at once that along the road of accepting my feelings for her I’ve also accepted myself and with that acceptance the self hatred was quenched. 

“Then it is nothing.” - my words are low and they shake, the sound vibrations weak against the notion that I’ve just put an end to the only chance I had of having her.

The fire in her eyes is extinguished with those four words. And in a blur a surge of emotions pass through her eyes, each one in a high speed chase of the previous one, until they settle in confusion and, perhaps, grief? The whole process is accompanied by a nervous rambling.

“What - Why - No.”

“I am sorry Hermione. I care for you, even if you don't believe it. But this is not sufficient. I went and started to care too deeply, to dream too much - as if I could have it- and even if you think me incapable of feeling, it hurts too much.”

I leave as the last word tumbles out of my lips, not sparing a look to the girl I leave behind. A trail of heartbreak left on my steps, all my senses numb, still in shock as I walk away from the scene of the crime, where I just bludgeoned the only happiness I have ever found.

“Pans” - Draco calls out to me when I enter the common room - “I wanted to ask - Salazar, what happened?”

The abrupt change in his words comes when I turn to face him, the urgent worry now gleaming in his eyes leading me to realize I have started crying at some point. There are cold tears marks describing a path down my cheeks that I hadn't felt before. I reach up to scrub at them hastily. 

“It's - nothing.” - I don't have another answer for him, and this one is not incorrect, my own words swirling around my head  _ Then it is nothing. _

His eyes are pierced when he reaches me, his expression concerned rather then defiant. As much as I am grateful for his protectiveness, right now I'd much prefer his obliviousness. 

“It doesn't look like nothing. Pans, you know you can talk to me, right?” - the affection he his directing at me doesn’t do anything to quell the ache inside, it's a reminder of how I wished my multitude of feelings were directed towards him and not her. How easier that would be. 

“I don't want to talk about it, Draco. Please.” - he looks like he wants to push the subject, but his whole expression turns resigned as he has taken to look around me lately. - “What were you meaning to ask me?”

It's his turn to look uncomfortable and he rubs at his neck sheepishly while answering. 

“I don't think it's, hmm, the best time. It's not important.”

“Oh no, please indulge me. I could welcome a distraction.”

He looks around to assure himself we are alone and, when the inspection seems to satisfy him, he reaches close enough that I can feel the prickling radiations of his presence besides me, and hesitates for a moment before asking, his voice cautionary low - “Is it Hermione?”

Well, there goes the welcome distraction. 

“What?” - I hear my voice in the distance, detached, foreign, an echo from the outside. 

The panic doesn't come in a tsunami like it did previously. I don't feel overwhelmed, gripped by it. I don't feel anything but hollow numbness. 

“Is it Hermione? The person you're seeing I mean.” - his words tiptoe carefully around me and I want to laugh, because of course this cosmic joke had to happen to me, of course Draco was bound to find out the second things ended. 

I remain silent, however. Laughing bitterly doesn't seem like a good response.

Draco mistakes my silence for panic and launches himself in explanations and assurances. 

“It's not a problem. I just didn't know you liked, well, women. But it's completely fine by me, delightful even. And Granger - Hermione - she is pretty and, even if it bothers me to admit it, undoubtedly smart. I can understand the fascination. The whole Gryffindor and Potter's guardian angel thing irks me a bit, but those are just small nuisances compared to the big picture.” 

“Draco -”

“The circumstances do complicate the possibility of a friendship between us, but I assure I'll do my utmost best to be cordial towards her.”

“Draco, plea-”

“I worry, however, for the effects the war might have for her Pansy. I'm sure you have thought about it as well. I don't mean to concern you, but I can not abstain from desiring their defeat, and said defeat won't be light on her. I don't know how -”

“Draco, stop, please!”

He stops talking when faced with my plea, when he notices the despair in my eyes.

I could deny it, disassemble myself into rivers of indignation and incredulity. Tell him how preposterous that idea sounded, how affronted I felt by it. But to what purpose? What I had to preserve, if there ever was anything at all, was left in that dark corner, shattered and disfigured. There was no point in continuing the charade, there was no point in anything at all. 

“How did you know?” 

“I saw you two, when I was returning from my rounds. I heard her say something relating to wanting, and then you pulled her aside. It was a simple deduction from there.” 

I ponder over his words for a moment, for the first time since this conversation started preoccupied that someone else was witness to such exchange. Draco, ever perceptive over my emotions, is quick to intervene.

“There was no one else with me. I think Daphne was arriving when you left, it was that noise that alerted you.”

“Okay.” - I say slowly - “I’m not - We're not. Not anymore. It’s nothing now.” - these words leave my mouth for the third time today, and they drag on my tongue, just as rough as the previous times, like tasting sand.

His forehead twists into a frown before realisation dawns on him.

“That is the reason you were crying.” - he says it more to himself than to me. - “Do you want to tell me what happened? You looked genuinely happy the past month.”

I laugh now, bitterly and in earnest. 

“It was foolish of me to believe it was possible for her to ever have feelings for a bitch like me. I did bully her for years. The universe is merely making sure I reap what I have sowed. I’ve made sure I am not worthy of affection after all.” 

Draco's arms are around me in an instant, holding me in place, preventing me from falling apart into the dark pit of myself again. 

“You deserve more, Pansy. You deserve love. You deserve the world.” - his voice sings me praises as his lips kiss my temple repeatedly. 

His words, nice as they are, pass through me like a breeze, that comes and goes and leaves nothing in its’ awake. She is right, she knows me, I made sure she did. And I can try to repent, but there is no absolution for my wrong doings. My name is as marked as Draco's arm, and I am, to everyone else, what I always aimed to be: cold, cruel, heartless, rotten to the core.

**Hermione's POV**

I wonder, some days now, if every part of my body is getting the due blood supply. There is a numbness that begins at the tip of my fingers and spreads to every other nerve ending. My sensations feel tuned down to a lower frequency. 

If it weren't for the times when I see her and a spark of electrical pain curses through my chest, as if my heart is trying to restart itself, I might start to believe I've been frozen solid but somehow kept walking, kept talking, kept moving. 

I should’ve known everything related to Pansy Parkinson is pain. (For a moment I almost believe it). I hate her, I want to hate her, I need to hate her. (I don’t, I want her, I need her). It’s all her fault (It’s all my fault). 

After she walked away, I stood unmoving for a minute, as reality wrapped itself around me. 

The rest of the evening was a blur, and how I got back to the dorm and in to bed was unclear to me. 

Like the previous nights, I dreamed. Contrary to other nights, however, the images behind my eyelids were not a reflexion of my desires, they were an endless repetition of that encounter, of those four words. I kept seeing the shadow that stayed in the place of her eyes as she walked away. And I saw myself from the outside, frozen in place, shocked still by the unexpected ache the scenario brought. If I looked carefully I could see the pieces crumbling, their contours oddly similar to what you'd call a heart, a cascade down my body to the marble.

When morning came around I wasn't sure if I had slept at all.

My movements were automatic, made possible by years of repetition. Getting up, getting dressed, doing my personal hygiene, greeting my friends, bringing food to my mouth, chewing it, swallowing it, looking around to try and get a glimpse of her; one of the habits I developed in the past few months and that already seemed to be engraved in my muscle memory. Relief and pain mixing in the pit of my stomach every time I failed to find her. 

\--------

“Hermione.” - Ron snaps me out and brings me back to the present. 

I turn my head towards him and mutter something akin to  _ Hmm?. _

“Is there something bothering you? You seem so lost on yourself.”

_ I feel like I am _ . I want to tell him, I don't recognize the hollow place I am now.

“No, no. I am fine. Only thinking about school work.”

Ron takes my words to face value, happily to carry on with his conversation.

“We were talking about Slughorn’s party. What do you reckon you'll wear?” - Ginny turns to me enthusiastically, something I find a bit uncharacteristic of her. Not one to ever show excitement towards such events. 

“I don't believe I'll attend.” 

“What? Why?” - Ron nearly squeaks out in outrage. 

“I don't care much for such events. I have more important matters to worry about, the classes are ever more demanding. Besides, I don't have a date.” - the last part is said as an offhand comment, but it seems to make Ron giddy, for reasons unknown to me.

“Ohh come on, Hermione! Don't be such a killjoy. It is only one night and there are certainly mountains of boys dying to take your hand in a dance. Take my darling brother for instance!” - Ginny's comment elicits a huff from Ron and gains her an ungraciously delivered smack on the arm. Ron's whole face colour coordinated with his hair.

I laugh, entertained by their banter. 

“Who are you going with then, Ginny?”

The turn in the conversation leaves Ginny a bit unsettled and it's her turn to babble. 

“Well, I reckon I'll go with Luna.”

“What? Can't get a boy to ask you?” - Ron mocks.

“Mind you, you twat. Luna is a better date than many boys, any boy actually.” - Ginny nearly growls in response, her protectiveness over Luna ever present. 

“And who needs boys anyhow. They are often surrounded my wrackspurts.” - Luna makes her presence known and you can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks, so lighthearted, she lifts up the room whenever she arrives.

She sits beside Ginny, the later filling with light immediately. Ginny looks at Luna as if spring was born in her smile.

“It's going to be outstanding, ain't it Gin?”

\--------

“What’d you think about this one?” 

“I think it's looks fantastic on you, Ginny. Just like the last five you've tried.” 

It's the weekend and a combination of factors (such as: having nothing more pressing to do and being desperate for a distraction), pushed me to answer Ginny’s plea for company for the perfect dress mission, as she so calls it, and being dragged by her to Hogsmead. 

Said mission so far as consisted in: me sitting outside a dressing room as Ginny puts on dress after dress, never satisfied with the outcome. 

“I'm not sure if it's the right one… It looks good, but not like, wow. You know?”

My eyes roll to the back of my head.

“Why are you so intent in finding the  _ perfect _ dress anyway?”

“Hmm, I just want to look good for - myself, and, ah, for people in general.”

My eyebrow arches and I look at her flushed face quizzically.

“Someone you want to impress?”

“No! No, it's just our first event together and I -”

She must've realised what she said because she stops her sentence midway, leaving the words hanging of the precipice. Her expression shifts into one of mortification. 

I am confused for a moment as to who she is talking about until realization dawns on me and  _ Oh _ .

“Oh.”

Her and Luna. Her and Luna are the us. They are together. 

It actually makes perfect sense and all the pieces fall into the place they didn't fit before because I was trying to put together the wrong puzzle. 

Ginny is looking anywhere but towards me, her mouth opening and closing in succession, and I can tell she is rummaging inside for the right words to say.

“You and Luna, you're together.” - it comes off as an affirmation instead of a question.

“Yes.” - the first word out of her mouth comes whispered, scared, a barely found voice.

“Yes.” - she reinforces, more confident this time. 

She says nothing afterwards and I realize she is waiting for my reaction. 

“That is why you've been so happy.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, that is… bloody fantastic.” - I smile at her and I can see her anxiety melting at my words. Her shoulders relax instantly, as if my approval turned weightless the world she carried around.

She is on me like a lighting bolt, engulfing me in a full body hug. 

Her joy is contagious, a warm feeling blossoming in the, nowadays, arid plains of my chest. 

“I haven't told anyone, I've been so scared that you all would look at me differently.”

“Ginny, I love you, we all love you. Everyone is delighted to see you this happy, and no one could disapprove after knowing that it's Luna's doing.” - I see her hesitancy, and before she says it I know what she is thinking about - “Harry included, he just wants your happiness and well-being.”

“I don't know, 'Mione. The things people say regarding two girls being together… They're awful.” - her eyes fall to the floor. Ginny looks so disarmed, so small. I'm reminded of her 11 year old self being overtaken by an evil she couldn't even comprehend.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” - her eyes, humid with tears, lift to meet mine. - “Take it from someone who's been told numerous times that there is something wrong, something unworthy about who they are. What is important is that you know, that you are in peace with yourself, with who you are, with who you love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love the idea of a Pansy/Draco bromance, so yeah, I'm just gonna be self-ingulgent and continue to write their friendship like this - witty and adorable in equal measure. 
> 
> And also, a wild secondary lesbian couple appears. The more the merrier, am I right? Lets go lesbians, lets go!


	12. the pain comes once the cold settles in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could never thank you guys enough for all the support. Everytime I feel uninspired or just too tired to write anything, I remember all your kind words and I get motivated all over again. Lots of love for all of you.  
Hope you enjoy the chapter.

**12th Chapter - **the pain comes once the cold settles in

**Hermione’s POV**

“Hermione, do you have a minute?”

“Of course.” - I say, closing my book and turning my full attention to the red-headed standing in front of me.

Ron pulls a chair and sits opposite to me. He radiates nervous energy, from the way he sits stiff and uncomfortable, to how he keeps fidgeting with his sleeves. I am expectant, but trying to refrain from pressuring him. 

“I was thinking, ah, if you'd -” he clears his throat as the words appear to cling to his windpipe - “I was wondering if you'd fancy going to the Slughorn's Christmas party with me?” - he lets his question hang in the air for a few moments and when I don't answer immediately he starts ranting - “I figured, since you don't have a date and Harry's going with Cho, I think? And Ginny's going with Luna. And well, I know I wasn't exactly invited, and I don't want you to take this as me wanting to take advantage. I am just offering to chaperone. You said you weren't planning on going, but it will be fun, and I think you need some fun. You know, all of us together, forgetting about reality for a night.”

His face is the picture of hopeful and I can't bring myself to deny his request. And maybe, I shouldn't. Maybe a night surrounded by my closest friends, when we can all be just simple teenagers and not fighting off the impending doom of the wizarding world, could bring me back to an universe that made sense. 

"I'd love to, Ron."

Maybe, it would snap me out of this nonsense and I'll be able to finally get a grip on these spiraling feelings. 

\--------

It's astounding the amount of information your brain processes and stores unconsciously; a true anthem to human capability, wizard or not. Things I've committed to memory, without ever meaning to do so; knowledge that reveals itself like a surprise knock at the door that brings someone that you have yet to meet, but somehow have always known. Things like knowing the place Pansy sat, ceremoniously, to eat her breakfast every day; or that she has a free period on Wednesdays that she spends huddle in the healing section of the library; or how she enjoys sitting on the stands during Slytherin's quidditch practices, basking in the winter sun and doodling on her notebook. Things I only become aware I know when I find myself gazing at the vacant chair in the Great Hall; when I find myself alone in the healing section of the library; when I am showered with weird looks after I stand gazing at empty bleachers, trying to materialize raven out of my own desires. 

Control over my own thoughts and actions has evaded me. What I would do, what I would say if I did find her in one of those empty spaces, I don't know. But I keep searching against my better judgement, against the rational part of me. I keep searching for a chance to find her alone.

I keep searching for as much as a sign that it wasn't a fragment of my imagination; I keep hoping to catch her eyes anchored in mine, to find the smile she would give me then and that I would turn away from every time; I keep wishing I hadn't turned away. 

I see her, obviously. Hogwarts is not big enough for her to be able to completely avoid me (no matter how successful she has been at that). When I do, however, her eyes are always somewhere that isn't on me, her posture stiff but immaculate, and no matter how long I stare she never breaks, never as much as twitches her neck in my direction. 

I feel invisible and it occurs to me, only then, how having her see me made me feel; unique, noteworthy, alive.

The repercussions of my unfocused mind spread to my studies, much to my dismay. Becoming particularly notorious one afternoon in the ever doomed potions class.

Professor Slughorn eyes me with concern as I try and fail at brewing this potion, two already failed attempts behind me. 

“Miss Granger, it is perhaps better you research a little more regarding this potion and try to complete it in the next class. You seen to be having trouble for the moment.”

I huff in frustration, trouble would be a kind way to describe my struggle. Stubborn as I am, I try and add a tad more of one of the ingredients and after nearly burning myself with the small explosion that results of it, I sight in defeat.

“Perhaps it is better, Professor.”

When I walk out of that classroom the foreign taste of failure sits heavy on my tongue. I feel unhinged and I question how did I let it get this far, how did I allow this foolishness to interfere with my future in such a way. 

There is not enough berating myself for having been so lenient with my mind, so indulgent. For still being unable to vanquish her from the focus of my attention even after such embarrassment and abismal character faults that I demonstrated in the past months. I feel myself losing grasp, like a ship caught in the middle of a storm. The angry seas clash against my every side, the water soars through the bow, engulfing the ship and its’ sailors, no matter how hard the captain tries, like a madman, to steer the ship into safe waters. 

After a stop at the bathroom to freshen up my face and gaze at myself in the mirror, seeing the lines that, even tainted with the unknown that swirled around and inside me, still looked familiar. And after I reminded myself of who I am beyond this confusion, reminded myself to not lose track of what is important, of my goals, I make my way to the library, determined to learn as much as possible about that goddamn potion, until I can brew it flawlessly with my eyes closed. 

I am rounding my usual table when I notice a odd, solitary book sitting on top of it. My eyes scan the surrounding space, coming up with a deserted room, and I wager it must've been forgotten by the last visitor before me. That is until I reach for it and read its’ title,  _ Advance potion brewing: A guide. _

After a moments’ hesitation I reach for the cover with trembling hands, already fearing the inscription I’ll find inside. My stomach sinks with dread, as the words that I am already expecting start materialising in the forefront of my brain. The heavy notion that this has not been left here by mere coincidence or forgetfulness is haunting, my heart in a uncoordinated dance switching fastly between a fast paced jive and the pause before the waltz starts when everyone holds their breath. 

As suspected there it stands, in a deep black, perfect calligraphy,  _ Property of the Parkinson Family _ .

I don't realise I am crying until a sob wracks through my chest without my permission and I quickly cover my mouth to try and quiet the sound. 

For the first time since this whole ordeal began I find myself crying because of it, grieving for the innocent part of myself that I lost along the way, grieving for the new parts of myself I've bludgeoned and bruised as I refused to accept their existence; perhaps grieving for her as well.

  
  


**Pansy's POV**

“Pansy darling,” - Draco's cheerful calling awakes me from the open eyed slumber I've been in. I turn my head towards him, not having strength to answer. Unbothered by my silence he continues, “What colour do you reckon would fit me best, a black hole sort of dark or a more refined green?” 

“Black, you know it is your colour.” 

“Well, I was feeling particularly brazen about trying new things, but if you say black, then black it is. My date has got the last word.” 

His enthusiasm is met with an huff from my end, “I am not going to the party,” I add as nonchalantly as I can. 

He lets out an outraged noise and moves to stand more directly in front of me, demanding my attention, “What kind of nonsense are you on about? Of course you are attending, you are not leaving me without a date.” 

“I am in no mood for such frivolities. Besides, I am certain you'll have no trouble finding someone to accompany you.” 

I maintain my head down, pretending to be focused on the book standing in my lap, hoping to dissuade him from this conversation, to get him to respect my decision. 

“Unfortunately for your sour mood, I don't wish to go with anyone else,” -  _ were I so lucky  _ \- “therefore I ask you, ever so kindly, to accompany me.”

“Draco…” 

“Come on! I even bet your mother already sent the dressing gown for you.”

I groan loudly, remembering the box stuffed underneath my bed that I had not even bothered opening. 

“Actually, I know she did, she told my mother. And she also told her the prominent colours of the dress so I could match appropriately.” 

“I really don't want to go.” - my voice is smaller, more fragile. 

His hands reaches for my chin and gently lift my eyes up to meet his. 

“Pans, I know you are not okay, and that you need your space and time to mourn and, well, avoid  _ the matter _ at all costs. But you've been sulking about for the past week, always locked away here. A night to wind up a bit would do you wonders,” - before I could open my mouth to protest, to tell him that a night in the same place that she would be sounded like a worse idea than offering myself up to a dementor willingly, he continued - “, and I'll be right by your side the entire night. We will have fun like we used to.”

I knew he could see the war happening in the cloudiness of my eyes, but he also saw something else, an opening, a sign that my barriers were starting to crack. 

“You are stronger than this, I know. Please don't let this foolish notion that you're not worth anything good ruin every good moment you are entitled to.” 

I felt tired of wallowing in my misery, of denying myself even the simplest pleasures such as having breakfast surrounded by my friends, a dose of strong coffee sided with a dose of amicable bickering to start my day right. I might've been a awful person, but I tried, I am continuously trying to improve, and maybe this self imposed exile, this masochistic self made purgatory - maybe I don't deserve it. 

“I… okay, maybe.” - I mumble.

Draco nearly jumps in excitement, letting out a shriek I am sure he would be embarrassed of in any other situation. He is behaving as a child being gifted his favourite toy, and the corners of my mouth lift slightly at the display. 

“I said maybe!” - I say a bit more loudly, trying to reign in his enthusiasm, even as my face stretches in a poorly contained smile.

It has little to no effect as Draco lunches forward to wrap me in a tight embrace, knocking the air out of my lungs in the process. And maybe, I do deserve some good things. 

\--------

In the midst of this constant pain, it was a small comfort for my heart to see Hermione thrive in potions today. After last class, and watching as the shadows of defeat and failure descended into the other girl’s expression, I realized that even more agonizing than being broken myself was seeing her fall to pieces in livemotion. 

The book might’ve been a rash decision, even more so considering the missap with the copies, but worth it nonetheless, if nothing else to see her shoulders lift a little higher.

The moments she stands with her back turned to me, focused in her work, lost to all that surrounds her, are the ones I seize to watch her, shielded from her heavy scrutiny. It is just as mesmerizing as it was before, she flows through the motions as a practiced symphony, violin chords being caressed by a delicate yet precise bow. I observe the recital from afar, thankful for the anonymity of the moment, until I notice a slight change in her posture, a change that depicts awareness, and I look away quickly avoiding detection.

The weight of her eyes on me brings all my senses to attention and I move to collect my things and hurry out of the classroom. Before I can, however, a hand on my arm halts my progress. 

Her grip is unmistakable and my muscles tense at once. 

“Pansy.”

The voice,  _ that  _ voice, the one that is able to soothe the troubled winds and simultaneously be the eye of the storm. I turn slowly, terrified of facing those eyes again. 

There they are, staring through me like they did before, but more careful this time. Her entire approach was cautious, as if she was afraid to fracture the fragile nature of such encounter.

“I wanted to thank you, ah, for the book.” - sheepish was an adjective I'd never thought I'd use to describe Hermione Granger, but right now seemed the most fitting. 

“Oh, you don't need to, ah, it was no big deal.” 

It is remarkable how we both turned into unarticulated messes in a blink of an eye, two of the smartest witches of this place (modesty aside).

“I have it here,” she goes to look through her bag, “to give it back, I mean.” 

I am quick to interrupt however, “You can keep it, I have another copy.” 

Her hand remains in her bag as she turns to look at me confused, “Another copy? I thought it was a family heirloom. It is a rather rare book.”

Well, it would've been better to have just accepted the darn book back than to go and explain  _ this _ now. 

“My parents are eccentric, as you may know.”- I wave it off, trying to sound as dismissive as possible. 

“Still, I can not in good conscience, accept such a valuable gift, I don't have... even more when it belongs to your family. It is not fitting to -”, she scrambles for words, and by Salazar, could this girl ever just stop with the humility. 

“Just keep it, you look like you need it. And my parents definitely won't miss it.”

She stares at me intently for a few minutes and my skin tingles uncomfortably under her gaze. Every instinct in me is screaming to flee. Every cell pulling in the opposite direction of her. 

“Pansy, I could never show enough gratitude for this. I don't know how to repay you.” 

“There is no need.” - I turn around as soon as the words leave my mouth, fleeing the scene as fast as my legs would carry me, without causing too much of a commotion.

_ A few weeks back _

_ “Ah, hello Miss Pansy. What a pleasure to see you.” - my entrance in the store is signalled by the tingling of the small bell. The old man behind the counter greets me with the same enthusiasm he always has, with an added layer of fondness and amiability that came with years of routine interactions. _

_ “Good afternoon Rogers. How have you been?” _

_ “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Just me and my books.” - he gestures around to stack of books that pile behind him, around him, in every corner of the small space. _

_ “Often, books make better company than people.” _

_ He laughs his characteristic warm, throaty laugh that so well matches his white beard, “I am afraid I'll have to agree with you on that.” - I smile at him, enjoying the companionship.  _

_ “Speaking of important matters now, has my order arrived?” _

_ Rogers places his worn out glasses at the tip of his nose and scans a few papers he keeps in his every untied desk, because, as he would so often put it - Chaotic minds make for chaotic desks. _

_ “Yes,” - he pulls a package from underneath his counter and places it on top of the table, “Advance Potion Brewing: A guide. That is it, correct?” _

_ “Exactly.” - I clasp my hands as I step closer.  _

_ “It has been paid for in advance, so I believe it is all settled.” _

_ “Perfect,” - I grab the package and place it carefully inside my bag, “Thank you, Rogers. You never disappoint.” _

_ “I was just wondering, if you allow me Miss Pansy,” - I eye him but motion him to continue, “I remember distinctly fetching an equal book for your father a couple years back. Is it ruined? Is that why you need a replacement?” _

_ How do you explain to your old bookstore clerk, that you almost consider a friend, that no, you’re parents’ copy is in perfect state of conservation, and that the reason you procured a second copy of this rare, expensive book was so you could gift it to a girl your family hates, and that you, in turn, spent years torturing, but with whom you are now undeniably, overwhelmingly infatuated with? You don’t. _

_ “Oh no. That copy is perfectly fine. I just wanted a copy of my own, you know? Where I could scribble my annotations without the constant pestering of my father on how I’m ruining invaluable family assets.” _

_ The look Rogers gives me is one of complicity, one of a man that knows just the menace Julius Parkinson can be, a small smile gracing his lips.  _

_ I say my pleasantries, leaving with a promise of a quick return and the package tucked safely in my bag. All the way back to Hogwarts, I can not stop the grin that covers my face as I imagine the look on Hermione’s features when I give her this. _


	13. from cloudy waters, it resurfaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope you're all having a nice weekend and that this chapter is a nice addition to it.
> 
> I know that the party's suppose to be sort of exclusive, but I kinda willfully ignored that fact because, well, because it was important for the narrative and, more importantly, I felt like it. Forgive me.
> 
> Again, thank you from the bottom of my gay heart for all your love!!

**13th Chapter - from cloudy waters, it resurfaces** ****

**Hermione's POV**

The thought that Pansy would also be attending the party had not occurred to me until two nights ago, halfway through dinner. I nearly choked at the impromptu realization, spluttering unceremoniously all over my plate. Odd looks and concerned words surrounded me afterwards, me having barely the mind, amidst the panic, of dismissing the whole ordeal as gagging in a piece of food. Normalcy was quick to return to the table as they confirmed I was able to talk and breath, however the anxious feeling left after the realization didn't disappear quite as easily.

There on out it was an epopee of worrying. Every detail was stressed over, be it things I could change (my dress, my shoes, my hairstyle), or be it things I could not (if my complexion was too pale, if my hair was too frizzy, if my facial features were to sharp, if my body was proportioned well). All this under Ginny's confused gaze, who didn't understand my sudden urgency in worrying over things I'd normally find frivolous, furthermore to a event I didn't want to attend in the first place. 

“You know Ron won't care, right? Besides, you're gorgeous regardless what piece of fabric you put on.” 

“This is not about Ron.” - I huff as I move to the nefarious task of trying to get my hair to cooperate.

“Sure…” - Ginny drags the word out - “Anyway, you're absolutely gobsmacking. Now let me help with your hair.”

Before I can accept or refuse her offer, she stands behind me, her hands already buried in the tangled mess on top of my scalp.

After quick work from a surprisingly skilled Ginny, my hair was carefully wrapped in a bob on top of my head. A few loose strands framed my face, bringing out the outline of my cheekbones. The last touch was a quick enchantment to keep it secure. While I stood admiring myself in the mirror, surprised, I failed to notice Ginny rummaging through her nightstand before a simple necklace with a discrete teardrop-shaped black pendant was placed carefully around my neck. 

“There you go, all done!” 

The pendant falls perfectly in the hollow between my collarbones, the strick contrast between my pale skin and its’ colour making it jump to sight. My hand traces over the garment, revealing in its' delicacy, slightly breathless from wonder when I ask, “What is this?” 

“It's something I had kept away,” - she shrugs her shoulders, “My mother always likes to give me that stuff, even if I rarely use it. And it doesn't go well with my dress tonight.” - she gestures loosely to her frame, the blue aqua fabric dropping over her curves as waves over the shore. 

“And the hair, you never told me you were talented at hairdressing.” 

“I am not. I just, I, ah, have been practicing…” - a blush flourishes in her cheeks - “in myself, for tonight.”

The end of her sentence is nearly muffled, her embarrassment making me grin. 

Even though I know of her relationship, she is still eerie when it comes to display blatant affection in front of me. It doesn't really make a difference. Her feelings for Luna are notorious, radiating of her otherwise tough persona, no matter how she tries to subdue them. Falling in love does certain things to a person… It can make a girl like Ginny, who would usually always choose quidditch uniforms and disheveled ponytails, cover herself in silky fabrics, and spend weeks training her hairdressing abilities instead of her flying abilities, in order to look her best for her loved one. 

“You look breathtaking, Gin” - then hovering just over her shoulder, I whisper - “Luna's a very lucky girl.” 

Her blush only deepens.

\-------

After getting ready we both get out of the dorm, albeit in opposite directions; Ginny leaves to go meet Luna in a more private setting first, and I head to meet the boys. 

Harry and Ron are both in their Sunday best tuxedos, Ron with a red tie and Harry with a blue bow. They're chatting animatedly when I approach them near the entrance of the Great Hall. Amidst the chatter, Harry is the first to notice me, “Hermione, you look fantastic.” 

I smile at him coolly in way of thanks, “You don't look so bad yourself, Mr. Potter.” 

Ron, on the other hand, is much less articulate, a look of bewilderment painted over his entire face. I arch my eyebrow at him, concerned, “Are you alright?”

His eyes are lost somewhere along the length of my dress, and my question doesn't even seem to register, until Harry elbows him in the ribs.

“Ah, yes. Yes. You look very good Hermione, that dress suits your, hm, figure… and the colour looks good on your… skin.” - I try not to laugh openly at his poorly put together sentence, sympathetic and aware, by the tone of his skin, of his own embarrassment. Harry giggling besides him enough to fuel the awkwardness. 

“You're too kind. I have been gravely worrying if the colour would suit my freckled, dangerously white skin,” - not to tease at least a bit, however, would be an inhumane thing to ask of me, so I smirk and continue, “I was honestly considering undergoing a tanning charm.” 

“Well, good you didn't. The freckles are doing their job, woman.” - Harry smiles, his eyes quickly lost to the space behind, where Cho is strutting towards us gracefully, “And now if you'll excuse me, I've got a date to go complement.”

Behind Harry leaves a still very much flustered Ron gulping through his awkwardness. His eyes shift around indecisive on where to land, a tough competition between my frame and everywhere else that is not my face. No matter how amusing I find this display of typical teenager boy's social inaptitude, I decide to just put him out of his misery, “Shall we?”

My voice seems to have the desired effect, promoting Ron to nod and follow behind. 

  
  


**Pansy's POV**

Draco's gaze is the first I catch amidst the crowd that has gathered in Slytherin's common room. Whatever he was in the middle of saying to Blaise is lost as his lips curl into an appreciative smile, our eye contact only breaking when, with a slight head tilt my way, he mouths something to his companion before turning and making his way towards me.

He is in all black, except for his white shirt, his tie is a deep shade of black, and there is only a slight speck of green on his tux's pocket to match the colour of my dress. He looks as elegant as ever.

“Darling, you look superb…” - his fingertips trail delicately along my arm - “So much it nearly makes me weep for what I've lost.” 

I smile warmly at his comment - “I'm still your date to this party, so not all is lost.” 

Both his palms clasp around my biceps, squeezing lightly, before pulling me into a hug - “And I'm the luckiest man in this entire castle for that.”

When we pull back I hope my eyes transpire what I don't say,  _ No, I'm the luckiest for having you _ .

We march into the party arm in arm, exuding confidence in every step. Despite the insecurities that have plagued me for the last year, having Draco beside me offering his bicep for me to ground myself, high chin position only faltering to steal gazes at me and make sure I am okay, reassuring smile always in place, makes me feel powerful. Not in the way I used to feel before, as if anyone would break before me because I installed fear in their hearts, but in a much more self-assured way. It was the kind of power that wasn't founded upon the world's view of me, but rather in how comfortable I felt in my skin. For once, I didn't ache with the need to crawl out, the unspoken despair turning me into a storm to everyone in my way. For once, I wished not to wreak havoc, but only to dance and laugh with my best-friend under the dim light. 

Underneath my palm the fabric of Draco’s tuxedo feels smooth, easy to hold on to. Just as smooth is the way he guides me through the throng of chatting teenagers until we are standing next to the beverages’ table.

“We have now arrived to the central point of every party. What does my lady wish to have?”

“Is there any quality wine in this joint or only watered down butterbeer?”

“Where do you think you are? At one of Malfoy’s Christmas gatherings?” - he laughs - “It’s either butterbeer or nada, mi amor.”

I barely bit back a groan but gesture to the table anyway, “Well, go ahead. I’d rather drink that sewer water than spend the night completely sober.”

“Ditto.” - Blaine appears behind Draco, his smirk set in place - “Thankfully, Blaine here has a solution for your problems.” - he reaches inside his tuxedo and pulls out a silver flask, looking at us conspiratorially. 

Draco arches his eyebrow, “And what would that be?”

“This, my friends, is the magic that will keep us sane tonight.”- slowly he unscrews the flask, giving room for the firewhiskey’s aroma to bloom into the air. - “Just a tad in your beers, and it will taste almost bearable.” 

Draco turns his gaze from a smirking Blaine to me, inquisitive, and I merely shrug my shoulders before I bring my cup to Blaine. After christening both of our cups with the spirit, Blaine winks, “No need to thank me, loves. When you need more, just come and find me.” 

Me and Draco stand looking at each-other, a playful twinkle in his eyes teasing me, “So, the night is looking up already.” - he raises his cup and noddes his head - “To a, not just bearable, but pleasant evening. And to us.”

“To us, darling.” - our cups cling together, a promise for a good night in the vibrations left afterwards.

**Hermione’s POV**

The clatter of the bootles was anything but discrete, Seamus and Dean’s mischievous face doing nothing to conceal the situation. 

When I first took notice of their alcohol smuggling, only an appeasing Harry stopped me from marching over to Slughorn and report them immediately. Instead, I crossed my arms and huffed, annoyed at their blatant disrespect of school policy. 

It takes a whole of 10 minutes before my posture changes drastically. A flash of raven catches my eye through the crowd, and from that point on my mind is a one-track train line, all the passing thoughts like lost wagons with a common destination. I crane my neck slightly, trying to get a better vantage point to observe her. Her hair is caught in a bun at the nape of her neck, parted in the middle and smoothed down, a look as put-together and classy as she is. There is a pearl necklace around her neck, complementing the vibrant green dress she is supporting.  _ Of course it would be green _ . The fabric hugs the paths of her body close, all her curves converging in a fluid wave. I feel myself shallow around the sudden dryness in my throat, the water of her ocean rising up from the depths of me. This holy vision of Pansy is perturbed by the sudden intrusion of bleached blond hair at her side as Draco leans over to whisper something in her ear, making her roll her head back with a bubbling laugh. The closeness between the two sends a jolt through my body, a wave of nauseous rage rising in the pit of my stomach. 

It's an impulsive action when I march over to the boys and grab the bottle, a surprise yelp escaping Seamus at the movement. The boys move to protest, under the impression that I'm confiscating their booze, but stop paralyzed as I bring it to my lips and force a big gulp down my throat. 

The alcohol burns as it descends, a new wave of nausea emerging and fighting the previous one. 

Four gaping mouths face me, all shocked into silence at my odd behaviour. Explaining seems vain, and caring about their reactions is something I have no energy for. 

“Just wanted to join the party.” - is all I say, before I repeat the movement from before, more amount of liquid burning its’ way to my stomach. Harry seems concerned, while Ron just remains bewildered looking at me with wide eyes. 

I may not me able to escape this feelings, but I'll do what I can to smother them, suffocate them, sterilise them, until these parasites are nothing but dying memories. 

\--------

Turns out an infection is much more difficult to irradiate when the source of it keeps being shoved in your face. 

They spend their time close, too close. She leans into him while they are talking to other people, he places an arm around her waist while guiding her through the room. They dance, heads close together, and continuous burst of laughter coming from her at his whispered words. She smacks him across the arm, he grins at her playfully, amused with her pretend indignation. 

They exist in a perfect little sphere, complicity radiating of every single interaction. She looks carefree, happy almost. The illusion she creates only slightly cracking when our eyes meet across the room and I see a pain mirroring mine. However, the moment is quick to end as she turns back to her friends after Draco nudges her, a smile quickly returning to her lips. Leaving me to wonder if even that small display of sorrow was a hopeful figment of an imagination that yearns, needs her to feel as allow as I do, now.

From a medical point of view, when a disease is resistant to treatment, the first course of action is to increase dosage. So I drink. One gulp after another, under Harry's growing concern, until everything seems to blur together.

\---------

I know, more from past observation of other people and academic knowledge of the symptoms of such condition than past experience, that I am drunk. Not completely wasted, but a bit more than pleasantly buzzed. Balance is somewhat a trying task, and I want to curse however placed the room under a spinning spell. My entire thought process is slow and uncoordinated, my mind a cloudy autumn morning. I am also having trouble acting discreetly, something I only become aware when I am suddenly struck by a whiff of peppermint aroma, leaving me heaving for a moment. Somehow I wandered near the Slytherin bunch, now standing a few steps behind her and Draco. The closeness is intoxicating in more ways than one, her perfume adding to the haze. Still, not close enough. 

Even through the fog that settled over my perception I see it, it's innocent, in line with all the affections they've shared throughout the night. They are talking, an indistinct chatter in the background of my ogling of the delicate line of her spine. Draco bends and drops a kiss on her check, it is polite and gentle, and it makes my blood boil. It is Daphne's subsequent comment, however, that undoes me. 

“Ugh, you guys are the perfect couple. Makes the rest of us feel like failures.” 

_ The perfect couple, the perfect couple, the perfect couple. _

Bile is rising in my throat, my lungs are collapsing, my vision is blurring at the edges. I need to get out of here, before I either vomit or pass out. I stagger my way towards the bathroom, bumping into faceless bodies, followed by a string of curses and barked insults. They all fall on deaf ears.

Both my hands grip the lavatory, steadying myself. I wait for the unavoidable vomit to come, but it doesn't, just unrelenting consecutive waves of nausea crashing against the shore. I try to fixate on my reflexion on the mirror, try to stop the motions as my universe shifts from its’ axis time and time again. If it's due to the alcohol or to the odd gravitational pull that absorbed my life lately, I can't tell. 

Ginny's the first that comes to check on me. 

“My god, 'Mione. Are you okay?” 

I want to respond affirmatively, tell her that everything is fine and that I'm just slightly dizzy, but I'm unable to. Her hand comes to rest on my lower back, and I struggle harder to control the damn spinning. 

“M'okay.” - I manage to mumble without losing the contents of my stomach in the process. At some point I close my eyes to try reigning in some control, so I am unprepared when cold water touches my forehead. Ginny's movements are slow, delicate. First my forehead, then my cheeks, then my neck. She stops a few times to place her hand under the running water, her touch returning wetter, colder. 

The refreshing sensation helps restore some of my cognitive capability, my eyes opening to find her concerned ones in the mirror. “I'm fine,” - I say with a little more purpose this time, even if still slurring - “‘m just not used to drinking.” 

She laughs a little, the hand on my back lifting to rub small comforting circles - “I know, dear. You can't hold your liquor.” 

We stand like that for a while, her hand just rubbing my back, helping with my descent into stable ground, and me just breathing. Slowly. In and out. In and out. Until I regain some even footing, and the world stops being a rollercoaster. 

“Do you think you're going to be sick?” 

I shake my head. The nausea has subsided enough that I don't fear puking, reduced to a mild indisposition. My brain, recovered from the free-fall into a more parachute state, tells me water might be a good idea, so I cup my hands underneath the still running tap and bring the liquid that accumulates there to my mouth. I repeat the process a few times, before rubbing my hands over my features. 

“I'm better now.” - she squeezes my arm in response to my statement. 

“Maybe we should get you to the dorms so you can sleep it off?” - it is still voiced as a question, even if I don't believe I have much choice considering the predicament I was in 5 minutes before. 

I concede, breathing deeply one last time before turning to leave. 

That same moment the bathroom door is hastily pulled open, a frazzled looking Pansy Parkinson standing in the doorway. Her cheeks are tainted pink, her chest is heaving and her eyes are swarmed with concern and urgency. Her posture seems to relax as she sees me with Ginny. The way her shoulders drop, accumulated tension leaving her body, is almost imperceptible and considering the poor state of my senses possibly just a fragment of my imagination, but it seems as if she was looking for me to check if I was okay. 

“What?” - Ginny all but barks in her direction, moving one step forward and shielding part of my body from the girl she considers an offender. One of her hands remains gripping my wrist, and it's all that stops me from running towards Pansy. 

Pansy blinks a few times, “I'm sorry.”, all she says before turning on her heal and out of the door. 

“What on Merlin…” - comes mumbled from my side, Ginny's features a picture of puzzlement. She shakes her head and turns to me, her reassuring smile back in place. 

I'm still looking at the door, tracing the shadows Pansy left behind. Trying to decipher based on the tone of her voice, on the softness on her eyes, if her apology was for the interruption or for something else, something more. 

It doesn't matter, either way. I know what I must do. They say sometimes all you need is 20 seconds of insane courage, and in that moment, I felt as brave as ever.


	14. I'll look at you the same tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!  
I'm so sorry this chapter took forever, I swear it was not intentional to make you wait with a cliffhanger, I've just been very, very busy.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one, good things are coming!

**14th Chapter - I'll look at you the same tomorrow**

**Hermione's POV**

As it turns out, in this specific situation, 20 seconds of insane courage translated roughly to a vodka fuelled impulse and a plan as flawed as the fabric of british wizarding society to follow. Surprisingly, my brain’s abilities are impaired by excess alcohol consumption similarly to every other every other human being. No immunity comes from being the brightest witch of your age.

After nearly 30 minutes of unrelenting persuasion upon Ginny, trying to convince her that I was well enough to be left alone in our common room, she finally yielded. If it was because she honestly believed me or just because she was defeated by sheer exhaustion at this conversation, I am not sure. It worked for me either way. 

Once alone, I am unsure how to proceed. The ultimate goal is clear: I need to find Pansy. The means for the achievement of such goal were, however, rather evasive at the moment. I can't very well march in to the Great Hall right after I promised Ginny I would stay here, scan the room for Pansy, march up to her and demand a private conversation, or worse, proceed with a public declaration. But, besides that I am not entirely certain what I can do. The options aren't many, and all of them are far less prone to success than desirable, or, in all honesty, striped of any executability. A cross-road is presented in front of me, no path appearing even minimally walkable. High vegetation, with promise of a precipice in all directions. Still, a better option than turning back without braving into one try at least. 

Groaning aloud, I make my way out in to the castle. My only viable option was another mindless stroll in hopes the universe took pity on me and presented me with a casual encounter. 

The halls are mostly deserted, all souls either in their dorms, or still enjoying Slughorn's Christmas’ Party. It comes as both a blessing and a curse, this emptiness. There is no one to question my wandering about, no one to demand explanations I don’t even have for myself, but there is also no vestige of Pansy and no living soul whom to ask information regarding her whereabouts. 

Another 15 minutes go by in this fruitless search. I am close to accepting defeat, swallowing my drunken bravery and dejectedly make my way back to the dorms when I spot moviment on my right. Millicent Bulstrode is walking along one hall perpendicular to mine, alone, presumably making her way back to the dungeons. The few interactions I had with the girl were anything but pleasant, even if she never presented a fragment of the nuisance she hoped to, her mean streak a far cry from the cutting antics of her house mates. One second of hesitation goes by, but despair outweighs the weariness of engaging in conversation with her, and I make the decision to approach her. Consciously I make an effort to level my voice tone, to try and cover my state of intoxication. 

“Millicent.” - her name comes out leveled, not dragged; not friendly, but assertive. 

She turns around at the sound of my voice, confusion mixing with disgust when she sees me - “Granger.” - her voice is cold and snarky, but still a cheap imitation of the snarl Pansy used to direct at me. It is almost funny. How obviously she tries to mimic her, how spectacularly she fails. How it doesn't bother me anymore, not after facing so much worse. How that worse came from the very person I am desperately searching for now.

“Do you happen to know where Pansy is?” - there is no point in small talk, no desire to have such with her. Something I suspect is mutual.

Her eyebrows shot up to the top of her forehead for a moment, before she furrows them and proceeds to eye me up and down in a menacing way, “Why does that concern you?”

“I just… Can you just tell me?” - it isn't as tough I have an answer for that, not for her. Somehow I hoped she could just offer me the information without much questioning. Were it so easy… 

“Now Granger, I don't believe Pansy would appreciate me going on telling people of her whereabouts, much less telling  _ you _ . So unless you present a justified reason on why you want to know I would consider just fucking o -” 

“Milli, darling, I'll take care of this.” - Draco appears behind her seemingly from thin air, and I have to blink once or twice to be sure he isn't a fragment of my imagination. 

“Draco. The mudblood here, she wanted, ah, Pansy. To know, I mean, where, ah, she is. I was just making sure she didn't forget her pla-.”

He pats her on the shoulder, how condescending his actions are getting lost to her - “Yes, yes. You were doing well. But I believe it should be my responsibility now, seeing as Pansy is my companion after all.” 

His referral to Pansy as that reawakens the nausea, and makes me start to consider leaving, discomfort at being caught amidst snakes starting to outweigh bravery.

“Yes, of course, of course.” - Millicent stutters and leaves hurriedly, Draco calling a vague “Thank you.” to her retracting back. 

He turns to me then, an exasperated look adorning his features. 

“Salazar, six years since we met and you are still able to amaze me with your stupidity.” - my mouth opens to protest a moment later, the time it takes for his insult to register, but before I can, he his gripping my forearm and physically dragging me away. My reaction time is severely impaired by the amount of neurodepressant substance I've consumed, so the hand that comes to swat his away is slow and not as purposeful. My protests interrupted by the continuation of his speech - “No matter how delighted Pansy will be to know you were so desperately looking for her, I am sure she will not be so pleased to have the entire Slytherin girl clan questioning her tomorrow first thing in the morning on why Hermione Granger was looking for her in the middle of the night, while clearly intoxicated. She has an awful morning mood, you know.” - I stop struggling against his hold, furrowing my brows at him - “Good, you stopped that pathetic attempt at resistance. It was becoming annoying.” - he huffs, clearly irritated about having to drag a drunk girl forcefully - “It baffles me how you are all still alive if that is the best you can do to fight back the first person that tries to kidnap you.” 

I don't deign his taunting with a response, too lost in my thoughts. Pansy would be delighted, he said. Why would he say that if he wasn't aware of what happened between us? He wouldn't. He had to know. And still. Still, he wasn't cursing me, wasn't hexing me, wasn't even actively discriminating me. There was no detectable disgust or mocking. Not even the customary hate. He just looked annoyed, partly at my poor shape and at having me risk exposing my connection with her to the entirety of Slytherin's house, but mostly at having to bother himself with this. 

The thought that I should be bothered by the entire situation occurred to me fleetingly, amidst the turbulence of my mind. There's a murmur from far away telling me I should be displeased at having Draco know something of such nature regarding my life. Flashbacks of me lashing out at Pansy not two weeks ago at the thought of him only dreaming it. That fear feels foreign, a belonging of someone else that does not fit inside my chest. Not when the despair of finding her takes up so much space. Not when him knowing means I have someone to guide me to her. 

I move to ask the same question I asked Millicent, finally aware enough to rip the benefits of this situation. 

Before I can articulate words Draco halts my steps. We are stopping outside what seems like some type of window, an entrance to a balcony. I scan my surroundings trying to understand where he has brought me, but I don't recognize the architecture around. Throughout the entire commute, I was too lost on my thoughts to pay attention to the directions he was taking me in. With what is left of my rationality, I chastise myself for such carelessness. It doesn't help debunk Draco's earlier mockery. 

“Just stay put for a moment. Don't go wandering around. Don't go speaking to any odd characters that may appear. Just stand still and wait for a moment, if you're able.”

I feel slightly infuriated and offended at his behaviour, treating me as a misbehaved child, but obey nonetheless. 

He opens the window and steps through it and her voices comes reverberant among the wind - “Draco? Did you bring the wine?”

I battle the sudden instinct of following the sound and settle for moving closer to the window panel Draco left semi-open.

“No, darling. But I brought something I think you'll enjoy more.” 

I can hear her groan distinctively, a smile tugging at my lips at the sound.

“Salazar, you're useless. I just wanted some decent alcohol.”

He laughs - “I'm sure you won't be calling me useless when you see who I've got with me.” - I am startled when he directs his voice at me - “Granger, come here. Be careful with the slight bump of the window.” - but follow his instructions.

There is no vocal reaction from her part, but the livid expression she presents when I come face to face with her speaks loud enough. 

**Pansy's POV**

Her whispered name dislodges itself from somewhere in my ribcage and escapes through my lips - “Hermione…” 

One strand of hair falls almost directly in front of her right eye, a solitary strand escaped from the natural disaster her hairstyle turned into. My eyes follow the path it draws, until it collides with her rose tainted cheeks. The winds comes destabilising its position and my eyes are magnets, accompanying the motions. 

“Well, this is my cue. You girls behave within reasonable limits.” - I barely notice Draco leaving, my eyes still one with the movement.

A few moments go by, her hair still swinging to the breeze, her eyes daring to dart towards me in between her inspection of everything else. Suddenly, I'm struck with the image of her tumbling out of the party that had me running through the castle, looking for a sign she was okay, and I am once again overcome with concern- “Are you feeling better?”

She is caught of guard with the question, blinking a few times before she finally says - “Yes, hum, yes, I am,” - realization dawning on her - “it was just a slight indigestion.” 

I nod once - “Good.” 

Silence swallows us again, heavy and uncomfortable. The uncertainty is palpable, slick underneath my fingertips. Both of us too afraid to say the wrong thing and enlarge the fissure that resides in the middle, our footsteps careful and measured now; every cell asking for consent from the rest of the organism before proceeding. 

In the end, while all the words I have caught in my throat mix with the silence, condensing into fog, she is the first to break the silence - “So… Draco knows.” 

“Oh,” - oh, that small detail - “yes. He saw me the day we… He saw me, and he had seen us before. He asked. I saw no point in lying then, taking in account -” - I pause, the verbal confirmation of our end too heavy for my tongue to roll around - ”the circumstances.” 

“I'm glad.” 

“What?” - the spirits of this castle must be mocking my soul, because there is no way Hermione would have said such a thing.

“I'm glad you told him. Otherwise he wouldn't have lead me to you, tonight.” 

I bring my hand to my forehead, feeling for the temperature, trying to find a reasonable explanation for my current hallucinations. 

I must look as dumbfounded as I feel, because Hermione's expression softens and she takes a step forward, in my direction. 

“I'm sorry Pansy, I -” - her chest fills in as if she is collecting the fuel to propel her words - “I still don't know how to aligne what is happening between us with the rest of my world, but to deny it is torturous. Somehow I need you. And not just physically, beyond that.” - she kept moving closer while she spoke, now standing in arm's reach - “I want to get to know you, if you'd give me another chance to.” 

Her hands fiddle with each other in front of her figure and I reach out to take one between my palms. The softness of every inch of her skin amazes me, her delicate hands presenting no exception. I run my thumb over the top of her hand, feeling the protuberances of her knuckles before bringing it to my mouth and covering it with a kiss. 

“Yes.” - falls from my lips as I lower her hand, the exhale she lets out at this single word is echoed inside my own chest. 

Like two teenagers smitten, we dismembered in soft looks and shy smiles, suddenly struck with an uncharacteristic sheepishness, as if we had never engaged in as much as a chaste kiss. It felt new however, even after touching her intimately, looking at her now. Her eyes glowing unabashedly in my direction, like stars lighting the dark sky. 

As I'm moving closer I notice the goosebumps spreading through her arms, all of her hairs standing on end. My hand reaches over to rub at the exposed skin, trying to convey some warmth. 

"Let's go somewhere more secluded, you are shivering." - my fingers trail down her arm, timidly drawing a path towards her own fingers, finding her palm and taking her hand, softly, giving her a chance to withdraw if she chooses to. She doesn't. And so, I take our intertwined hands and guide her towards the castle.

Lacking a better place for privacy, I start to guide her in the direction of our classroom. She follows, wordlessly. I am unsure if she has guessed our destination, but since she does not question me about it, I assume that it is okay to continue. 

Halfway there, in the middle of an empty corridor, our progress is brought to a halt, as Hermione tugs on my hand and stops me mid-step. 

I turn, worried that she might need some assistance, to find her staring at me intently, a soft, timid smile playing in her lips.

"Are you okay?" - is the first thing I think to ask, concern overcoming every other emotion. 

She doesn't answer. Instead, she moves closer, gliding through the floor. I am immediately dazed with her closeness, her aroma invading my senses. Between our gazes there is a lifeline, a cord shortening as she anchors me back to her. She pulls, and I willingly go. 

The first touch of her lips against mine erases my awareness of an existence beyond the vincules of her body beneath my fingertips. 

Her hand around the back of my neck grips me like she doesn’t not care who sees us, and I follow suit.

\--------

We had eventually broken apart, and continued our way to the classroom, where we stayed for hours, just kissing, talking and smiling in silence as the night shifted around us.

The sober Hermione got, the less afraid I was that this was merely a drunken impulse that would eventually morph into regret once sobriety settled.

"My head is going to kill me tomorrow, isn't it?"

I laugh as Hermione groans into her hands. 

"I'll sneak you a hangover potion in the morning, lightweight." - I pat her knee affectionately and she bumps her shoulder into mine, gently, teasing. It feels right, this banter. We are sitting side by side against a wall, the cold seeping through our backs a welcome opposing force to the warmth that radiates from all the points where our arms touch. 

This shouldn't feel, taking in account all surrounding circumstances, as grand as it does. I had just been swallowed whole by the sheer force of her lips crashing against mine, time and time again. But the intimacy of this moment, where we are existing together in quiet company, instead of aggressive collision of passions or crash of angers and wills, is nicer than all I've experienced before. It ignites a hope that perhaps we are not opposite forces. Perhaps we can exist in a balance.

"Speaking of tomorrow morning, maybe we should get some sleep?"

It is a cautionary suggestion, not born out of actual desire to leave but awareness of how late it got. 

"Yeah." - she hums back - "that's probably wise."

We linger for a few moments more, her hand reaching for mine and squeezing it slightly. The simple gesture takes all the fatality out of this goodbye, and lightness is all I feel, even when we are about to part ways. 

We get up, and Hermione stops in front a big window, eyes trained to the starry sky. 

"The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand."

From the picture of Hermione I managed to scrape together with every glimpse she has allowed me, I am able to understand that this slips through almost without her meaning to say it. A fleeting thought that makes it past her lips while she is distracted gazing at the sky. 

"What is that?" - I gently ask.

"Oh, it is from a sonnet."

"A what now?"

She cocks an eyebrow at me, inquisitive.

"A sonnet. Poetry." - she punctuates the words as if they should make more sense to me, that way. 

My lost expression probably clues her in that they do not.

"You never heard of poetry? Even muggle?"

"It may come as a surprise to you, but I've not had the biggest contact with all things muggle."

She dismisses my comment, more preoccupied with this apparently enormous character flaw she has come across. 

"Well, I'll have to get you acquainted with some iconic poets. You're really missing out!"

I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. Oh Hermione, all the things I had been missing out on before you came and ripped my world off its' hinges. 

\--------

Later, I lay in the dungeons, my entire body tingling in excitement still. Despite the darkness surrounding me, there is a brightness here. As if someone decorated my chest cavity with Christmas’ lights.

And if before I was worried about what was to come, she lay that worry to rest with eyes twinkling that said “ _ I’ll look at you the same way tomorrow _ .” Eyes that swirled in the canvas of my eyelids the rest of the few hours of sleep I got.

  
  
  



	15. first few breaths above water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so sorry I've been m.i.a., this whole situation has been quiet stressful as I'm sure you know.  
I'll try to update more regularly, I promise! Hopefully someone still wants to ready this ahah
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well, or as good as possible in the complicated times we live in. Much love!

**15th Chapter - first few breaths above water**

**Pansy's POV**

The huddle of baggage was considerably smaller when leaving for Christmas vacation, but usually the enthusiasm of the student body compensated for it. That was just one more among the many seemingly meaningless things that changed with the war. There was something on the air akin to static electricity (a term I had learned from Hermione after a bizarre instance when I angrily accused her of hexing me, my skin burning and prickling at a single touch of her fingertips, only to have her laugh at my very annoyed face, and proceed with a lengthy explanation about the workings of muggle electricity). Where before wide grins and boisterously chatter were, now remained apprehensive eyes and subdued conversation. The anxiety was palpable. But, unlike the customary eagerness of the holidays, this anxiety was fueled by urgency. An urgency of holding in touching distance the people they loved. An urgency of having the assurance that outside the thick castle walls, their world was still somehow intact. 

I felt no such urgency. My default feeling for these instances was dread, but now the usual lump in my throat was absent. The ghost of last night kept me giddy, almost making me forget what awaited me beyond these castle's walls. 

Surrounding me was the personification of what I had missing, my light demeanor mismatched with the several sullen expressions my housemates supported. 

There was a small twinge at the back of my mind, the guilt for not sharing their misery, but as long as I could still feel her at all my pressure points, I couldn't be arsed with worry over anything else. 

My eyes scanned the crowd of students. I had not yet seen her among the commotion, and wished to spare her one last glance before the hiatus that was to come. 

Soon enough they were ushering us into boarding the train, masses of uncoordinated bodies pushing and swearing their way to a seat.

To my right there was a flash of auburn and swiftly and suddenly my attention was captured, and I was left to gaze at the back of her head as she was climbing up the carriage, a self-satisfied smile escaping to dance in my features.

I had been technically asked to leave the Slytherin compartment for a bit. Apparently, my unexplainable excited restlessness was too annoying and was putting a dent on their scowls.

I am just closing the compartment door, when I turn to see the culprit of such state.

A smile spreads across her face, bashful but blooming. 

“Hey.” - I try to catch myself before melting at a monosyllabic word. 

“Hey there.”

“I was actually hoping to find you.”

“Oh? Were you planning on strolling into the snake’s den or just wonder about until you happened to cross my path?”

She rubs at her arm a bit sheepishly, “Well, the second. It worked so far, for better or worse. So I figured I should push my luck once more.”

“It seems your m.o. worked once again, miss Granger. Luck keeps coming your way. Or perhaps it’s just I that do." - I pause for a moment, taking the chance to smirk up at her, before I remember something - "Oh, and by the way, here is the hangover potion I promised you."

I slip her a tiny vial, that she accepts gladly.

"And you were just carrying this around?"

"Well, I did tell you I'd get you one. Besides, as they say, forewarned is forearmed."

For a moment she seems taken back with my use of the expression. There are moments she still seems surprised that I am an articulate person capable than more than just spewing hate. Perhaps that notion would be offensive if her surprise wasn't coupled with a sort of adoration; the glow of wonder that clouds the eyes when discovering a new world, when first stepping on wild, unbraved terrain. That itch to wander and get to know every crease and crevice of the plains that lay ahead.

We are both beaming at each other in the middle of corridor, gently swayed by the lull of the train gliding through the tracks. Outside a white sheet has been draped over everything that is the earth. It looks like a freshly made bed, when the sheets still smell of the flowery detergent your mother uses and are not yet heavy with all the broken dreams you confine to the bedside. 

She cuts the silence with a movement of her arm, her outstretched hand offering me a piece of paper. 

I take it, eyebrow raised; curiosity peaked. I don’t ask, merely expect her to elaborate, which I know she will.

“That’s… That’s my address. For you to, well, for you to write me. If you want, that is.” - She fidgets, avoiding eye contact. It’s endearing how, even after the intimacy we have shared, the simple act of suggesting a maintained correspondence could leave her like this, could leave me blushing just as crimson, 

“I… Yes, of course. I will. I will write.”

Another silence follows. There are red cheeks and lips curved up, and a glimpse of teeths. The hills still pass on a endless parade of white. There is this moment and the promise of the next. There is this girl bathed in the sunlight that filters through the clouds and the windows, that is not strong, but bright enough to make her glow; her hair golden, her eyes ambar, conserving all the secrets I want to get to know. There is this fragile paper I hold between my fingers, the invitation for me to go and see the gardens, and smell the flowers and await by her door with the promise that it might open eventually one day.

And, like with every moment, there are familiar landscapes as we approach our destination bringing this moment to a halt. And so she says, “I’ll be waiting.”

And I think  _ So will I _ . And I think that maybe, if I am lucky enough, this moment will never end, and it will only linger in a limbo state until it continues where it stopped when our eyes meet once more. And again. And again. 

\--------

The first two days of holiday have me on the verge of murdering my mother. Her constant presence looming over me, suffocating, taking all the space in this house. A presence growing with each hour I don't see her walking out of the front door, trapping me inside this house alongside her. Her calendar was, apparently, clear, so she entertained herself fussing about the house, ordering the house elves through a maddening cleaning spree that aimed to turn an already impeccable house into a continuum of reflecting surfaces. 

My impatience kept growing nearly to a level of childish petulance, something I was not above of, in the right circumstances. Trina, the poor thing, bore the brunt of my frustration, my patience wore so thin I snapped at her left and right for the more frivolous things.

I was a mess really, nervous energy so pent up in my veins I could barely sleep, twitching and turning and barely refraining from hexing everything in sight. The sleep-deprivation didn’t help in the slightest. 

When she finally did leave the house, I barely waited for the telltale sound of the front door closing before I was out and running to my destination. 

Rubio is a half-blood, also, he’s quite poor. Two characteristics my family does not tend to hold high on the list of meritable attributes. He is, however, loyal, dependable and such a talented gardener, he puts all the house elves to shame. These three things excuse him from his unfavourable heritage and social standing enough for my parents to employ him and give him a small cottage in the outskirts of our land. Nothing too fancy of course, just enough for him not to be homeless.

For as long as I remember he has lived there, quietly, always maintaining the gardens pristine and his presence scarce. My parents leave him be, not intruding in his life, only coming down to the cottage in rare occasions of charity, when mother feels the need to reinstate her self-image as a decent being by extending small favours to the less fortunate. Or, in other words, have the elves carry a few meals they cooked to Rubio's house, or giving him my father's old robes, when they are not fit to use in public anymore. 

I approach the worn down brown door by the narrow pathway that as been carved in the middle of the grass. The bulbs that once there bloomed, now long dead from years of being stepped upon. 

I knock on the hardened wood and step back, waiting only a few moments before the door opens, giving place to tinkled, questioning eyes.

"Miss Pansy?"

His hard brown eyes peek through the tapestry of wrinkles time as draped over his face, framed by grey bushy eyebrows, colour matching his hair. 

"Hello Rubio, may I come in?" 

He steps back and motions with his hand for me to enter. 

"You'll have do excuse my humble living quarters, they certainly aren't what you're used to." 

I follow him to a small kitchen and, after his indication, sit in one of the only two chairs siding the table against the wall.

"Can I offer you something, Miss? Perhaps a cuppa’ tea?" 

"Tea would be lovely, Rubio." 

There are a few mouthed words accompanied by a wave of his hand and suddenly there is a mug in front of me being filled by a hovering kettle.

I circle the warm mug with my nimble fingers, feeling the warmth seeping through my pores. As I bring it to wet my lips, the liquid still too hot to drink, Rubio asks, “You’ll have to excuse my curiosity but you are in my house so I feel entitled to ask. What brings you here, Miss?”

“Well, Rubio, as a matter of fact, I need a favor.”

“A favor?”, surprise is evident in his gaze.

“Yes, you see… I need to communicate with someone. Someone my parents wouldn’t really… approve of.” - bushy eyebrows stare me down from high in his wrinkled forehead. - “And I wanted to ask you if I could, well, use your owl?”

His eyes are hard, inquisitive, a deep sound of understanding travels from within its’ throat. 

There is no immediate answer and I begin to get nervous. Nervous of his denial, nervous of the breach I’m creating. A big enough tear from which my entire being could slip out, if Rubio decides to tell my parents anything, no matter how insignificant. It is a loose end and if he pulls, gives it just a slight pull, the entire ball will unravel and trap me, bind me to a disgraceful end. 

“If your parents disapprove and they find out I’m facilitating that… It’ll be big trouble for both of us.”

“They will only know if you tell them.”

“I don’t know Miss…”

“Please, Rubio. I’ll give you some extra galleons, whatever you desire.”

He purses his lips, moving them side to side as he muzzles it over.

“A’right, I suppose there ain’t no harm. Use Rif at will, just don’t over carry him, he’s a bit old, the bastard.”

I clap my hands together, “Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.”

I pull the cramped parchment from my pocket and waste no time preparing the owl and send it on its’ way. The content of the letter having suffered through numerous rewrittings, the remnants of evidence of such only ashes on the floor when I move to another try of stringing the right words together. Afterall, I am not trying to have my parents curse my existence after stumbling upon such correspondence. 

“Thank you Rubio, thank you so much.”

“Bring me some of that nice tea your parents have next time you come around, will you?”

  
  


**Hermione’s POV**

My mother was confused. 

Ever since I arrived home and put everything I brought with me in its' rightful place, changed into a more comfortable attire and shared a meal with my parents, filling them in the appropriate details of this term events - the ones that won't make them forbidde me from returning to Hogwarts, mortified and terrified for my safety, or the ones that won't shake their notion of me to the ground, deconstructing fast and hastily who I am to them; ever since night first touched the horizon, delicately cascading over the houses and street lights, I've been waiting. Waiting for an owl to come barreling through my window and drop word from her into my hands. 

The hours passed, night gave away to the first few rays of light, the next day swallowed the previous one, and my restlessness kept growing. 

Conflicting monologues fought to take conference in my brain. One that calmly said I was maniac, that too little time had gone by, that if I could just patiently wait, I would receive the letter. The other screamed and whined in equal measure, that if she wanted to write she would have, that it was foolish to ever expect it. 

Reading would not suffice to calm me, so I resorted to distractions. Trailing after my mother in the house, begging for extra chores; nagging my father every time he sat down to read something, edging conversation out of him over the most absurd themes; avoiding silent and relaxed time like the plague. Ence my mother's confusion. She was delighted, but confused.

It was the middle of the afternoon on Christmas Eve and I was in the middle of prompting details of root canal treatments out of my father, when my mother came to the living room.

"Hermione, darling. There is a rather lunatic owl trying to break through your window. If you could maybe see to that before the bird hurts itself, that'd be good."

I get up like a lighting bolt, saying a casual "Yes, mother, I will.", before I am sprinting up the stairs. 

I am not the most prone to sports person I know, so when I reach my bedroom door, my lungs are burning sightly and I'm struggling for breath. 

Sure enough, an unknown bird is chirping away at my glass window trying to break its' way through. 

I rush to open it and let it in, a piece of parchment is unceremoniously dropped in my desk, and the bird alights on the windowsill, waiting an answer.

I rush to open the parchment and the now familiar handwriting soothes my anxieties instantly. 

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ I am sorry I am only now writing. I meant to do it sooner, but my mother has been a present insufferable cunt, which is much worse than when she is just an insufferable cunt.  _

_ As you may understand, it is a bit risky corresponding with you from my home, with the racist parents and all, but I found an appropriate, safe alternative. It just took me a bit longer. _

_ I may not be able to answer right away, but I’ll do my utmost best to answer as soon as possible. _

_ Anyhow, how have the holidays been for you? Is there a sorta of muggle yule? If yes, then how is it? Do you have a special ritual or special foods? _

_ Yule is rather unsavory here. Mother keeps everything pristine, and the food the elves prepare is divine, but there is no warmth. We just gather around the table, making meek talk, pretending there is some kind affection among us. It is all quite phony and quite sad. _

_ But this year, it doesn’t feel so gloom. It might be the weather, but it might also be you. Whatever makes your holiday better (if it is not too presumptuous of me to assume which one would be - it is totally because of you). _

_ Love,  _

_ Pansy _

My hands traced her name, the P so carefully waved and composed, so evidently her. Furtive, stolen looks at the word that precedes it, my heart missing beats as it tripps over the so fleeting and so terrifying yearning for Pansy's purpose to be more than a polite farewell. 

Still giddy with her letter, blood pumping furiously with the underlying fear of associating her name with that word, I scribble down a hastily response. 

I can not stop wanting enough time to let myself fear. Now that I opened the dam, I am overflowing. Every vein, every artery, every shadowy corner, every wide atrium, filled to the brim; oceans and oceans of wanting her. My brain drowned in the noise the memories her eyes make. So I don't think twice, I don't even reevaluate, before the strange owl is flying out of my room, leading my words back to Pansy.

**Pansy's POV**

The parchment is hastly dropped on the table, my hands reaching reflexively for my chest, trying, in vain, to alt the escape of my vital organs, now swirling through the hills. My shriek alerts Rubio, and he eyes me, wary, under a puckered eyebrow. 

Hermione wants me to visit her. In a few days time. In her home. (Her muggle home, in the muggle world - details that don't register, don't even matter, against the magnitude of Hermione wanting to see me). 

I have to read the lines through a few times before I let myself believe they are not a product of my hopeful mind, a misinterpretation, or just somehow not real. But I know, from the very first moment the words materialize in front of my eyes, there was no other possible option but to accept. 

I would bend and break, conquer oceans and plains, I would run every mile that separated us if need be, even if dry heaving and coughing and struggling to drag breaths from the deep end of my screaming, bleeding lungs. But I would go to see her. If she wanted me to, I would go to see her.

  
  


It took quite a bit of convincing, but an obscene amount of promises of the most decadent teas and an even greater dose of desperate pleading, I would not admit to even under torture, later Rubio had conceded in letting me use his floo. Perhaps, had my mind been a tad less cloudy, less wrapped in misty autumn colours, the promise of unruly curls tickling the corners of my attention, demanding it did not stray, I would have calculated the risk of what I was getting myself into. As it was, all my accounts were underrated and overlooked. Foolish would be a charitable adjective for this. It was down right imprudent, irresponsible, lunatic. It was asking for an unsavoury fate; handing my neck, naked and exposed, for anyone who might want to slit open the ivory skin, and delivering a please and thank you to wrap it up politely. 

The plan was fallible, and, as previously stated, risky. But it was the only viable option, and as such, I was beyond willing. My parents were to be absent the entirety of the day, so that was one less concern. I was to go through Rubio’s floo, one of the connection floos was of an old acquaintance of his, a woman that owned a small, low profiled tavern in a less known perpendicular street of Diagon Alley. I had shared the address with Hermione, the hour arranged between us and the owner to allow as much discretion as possible. 

With every preparation set into place (or as least as much as it could be), I readied myself for the voyage. And as I released the powder and the foreign words left my mouth, my whole body dissolves into tingles that have nothing to do with transportation magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pansy's visiting Hermione in the next chapter, how do you think it'll go?


	16. i will brave the depths of the unknown for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! First I want to say an enormous thank you to the resistant souls that are still reading this fanfic. I know I have taken away too long to update, but I just couldn't bring myself to write anything. Everytime I tried I would just freeze up and everything I produced just felt flat, lifeless, like I just couldn't string words together. And even if I am far from completely happy with this chapter, I don't want to keep you waiting any longer. And anyway this is mostly a bridge to the one chapter I'm really excited about.
> 
> A special thank you to those who comented, you reignited in me the passion for this story.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one.

**16th Chapter** ** \- i will brave the depths of the unknown for you**

**Pansy’s POV**

The rusty clock above the fireplace struck a quarter to two right before I entered the floo. The trip was only a few minutes, so I was still fairly early when I landed with a dry thud on the dusty tiles. For that reason, I was momentarily surprised to see Hermione sitting on a bench a few feet away, head springing upwards at the noise. 

“Is there any time difference here in the muggle world I am not aware of? I thought I was early and here I find you, so comfortably seated, looking as if you’ve been there for quite some time.”

She smiles softly at me, closing her book and rising to meet me at my height, “There is not, I was just earlier than you. Didn't want to risk missing your arrival and having you getting lost somewhere among the muggles.”

I fight a grimace, old prejudice bubbling to the surface for a moment, “How very chivalrous of you.”

She doesn't seem to notice and waves her hand in front of my face dismissively, a smile teasing her lips, “Oh, you know me. Ever the gentlewoman. May I guide you now, m’lady?”, her hand now outstretched for me to follow. 

I beam wholeheartedly, just as someone that knows they would follow this girl to the edge of this earth and leap over, if she asked, “Lead the way.”

Before we venture into the outside world, she takes a long look at me, raking my outfit from top to bottom. As I feel her eyes hanging on every thread of my worn out wool sweater, my insides stir and turn and await, and as I often feel when hanging in the space between her words, I’m holding my breath and everything is still as if I’m suspend in that poignant pause that always comes after pulling the strings and before the music notes finally fill the empty space. Not disappointing her voice carrying the same melodic undertone to it, comes to fill the air. 

"Your attire is… not what I was expecting."

The words don’t serve to put my worries to rest, instead I’m immediately gripped by self-consciousness and I try to shrink inside of the oversized jacket Rubio had lent me. 

“You don’t like it? I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to wear…” - my voice is small, uncertain.

“Oh no! You look perfect!” - she rushes to reassure me, and my chest decompresses - “I’m just surprised. I had no idea you owned muggle clothing.”

“Well, I don’t exactly…”

At that, the previously subdued curiosity blooms all over her features, taking up every line and crease of her face. And she creases her brows as she asks.

“So, where did you did go about finding jeans then?”

_ The day before _

_ "Rubio, I am in dire need of your help. It's a matter of extreme urgency!" - despite the shy sense of familiarity that has bubbled between Rubio and I, perhaps bursting through his door with no warning while clamouring for help might be a step too far.  _

_ To his merit, Rubio recovers quickly, appearing barely affected by my dramatics.  _

_ "Miss Pansy, you've startled me." - if it wasn't for his knitted eyebrows I'd say he looks about as startled as a dry wall - "Is everything okay?" _

_ My arms drop in frustration - "No, everything is absolutely not alright! I haven't the faintest idea how muggle's dress, but I suspect it's a far cry from my usual attire." _

_ For emphasis, I gesture towards my long skirt and corset combination. _

_ Eyes accompanying my movement, he remains stoic for a few moments, before his raised eyebrow drops and he snickers. Full on snickers as if I've just told a mildly funny joke. His amusement with my despair only serves to aggravate me further.  _

_ "Yeah, I suppose you're right Miss. That outfit is sure to turn some heads." _

_ I plop on the worn out armchair on the corner of his small living room, frustrated and horrified.  _

_ "I don't own any other variety of clothing…" - I lament - "I'm going to look like a fool."  _

_ "Look on the brighter side, you'll give the lads and ladies a proper laugh." - he laughs again, throaty and hoarse and I have to fight the urge to hex him on the spot, reminding myself that he is the reason I am even going to be able to meet her. _

_ "Rubio! While I'm glad my disgrace brings you such amusement, I'd appreciate some empathy for the tribulations of a fellow witch." _

_ My displeasure seems to egg him on, and my frown deepens as he laughs louder.  _

_ "Oh Miss Pansy, I'm not sure this hitch could be classified as such a disgrace as you’re making it out to be." - he says between laughs, not the least bit fazed by my murderous scowl. - "Don't give me that look, you can't deny this whole ordeal is humorous." - before I can begin to rebuff him, telling him that I, in fact, don't find it the least bit funny, he continues - "Anyhow, I might be able to offer some help." _

_ That halts any mean-spirited jabs I had to deliver, the scowl melting from my features in record time as my eyes turn to look at him expectantly. _

_ "Come along now." _

_ Dutifully I follow him, down the narrow corridor to the space I assume must be his bedroom. Even though he requested me to follow him, and so I can only assume that extends an invitation for me to enter this division, it still feels like I am trespassing private property. And so I hover by the door frame watching him move further into the room towards a hidden corner and start to move about some clutter. _

_ "What are you doing over there?" - he calls over his shoulder - "Best if you choose for yourself, I'm not much of a fashionista." _

_ With featherweight steps I tip-toe towards him, careful not to disturb his personal space. As I approach behind I peer over his shoulder and make out what seems to be an old trunk filled with several neatly folded clothing articles.  _

_ Rubio moves aside, urging me to explore the contents freely. The clothes are far too small to be his. _

_ "They're my wife's." - he offers simply to my questioning eyes, as if the explanation should suffice. Except it only baffles me further. _

_ "Oh." - I pause, before carefully adding - "I didn't know you had a wife." _

_ "Well, I don't, any more. Haven't for quite some time now. It's only natural you don't recall." _

_ His voice is level-headed, matter-of-fact. Only a subtle undertone of nostalgic sadness slipping through the cracks in-between his words.  _

_ "I'm so sorry Rubio." _

_ He waves his big hairy hand dismissively - "Oh nonsense, it's been 13 years. And while I never quite stop missing her, it's not painful to talk about her now. It just makes me reminisce about the good memories." _

_ A star twinkles in his eyes, shards of a burning sun. It takes no more than those few sparkles of light reflecting in the deep brown pool of his tired iris for me to know that embers of that love still burn through his darkest nights.  _

_ In the past, the idea of love made nothing short of nauseous. Now it brings me warmth, and so I urge him - “Tell me about her.” _

_ My words are the gust of wind that blows his blaze into devouring flames, his eyes caught in the fire. _

_ “Oh, her name was Norma. She was a small lady. Just about your size even though she was a grown woman. So the clothes should fit fine. But she had the will and the energy of an entire village. When I first meet her, I was 22 years old, fresh out of my momma’s house in the north and arriving to London in a friel iron train. She was in the station with her brother to collect workers that came to work in her daddy’s company. I wasn’t one of them, I didn’t really have a job or much of a destination. But she got me confused amidst the men, ushered me around in a hurry towards the carriage and I was powerless to do anything but follow that tiny bossy beautiful girl. Turns out they could use the extra hand so that day I got a job and I fell in love. For some unfathomable reason she was also interested and well, we went from there. Me a quiet awkward lanky fellow and her a strong-willed small lady. Not sure how it worked, but it did. It did for 30 wonderful years. Part of them we worked here, for your family. I tended to the gardens and she cooked. It was good, we were happy being just the two of us. But well, life has its' way and she passed when you were 3."  _

_ "Oh Rubio, that's beautiful… I never knew…" _

_ "Yeah well, it's long gone now. I'm sure my Norma's watching over us somewhere and she will be delighted to see you, small miss Pansy, wearing her clothes." _

_ With that I start to roam through the truck's content.  _

_ "What is this?" - I say holding a pair of what I'm assuming to be pants. _

_ "Those are jeans. They're perfect!" _

_ "Jeans? Pants for women?" _

_ "Well not just for women, but this ones yeah, they're for women. Muggle women tend to use them frequently." _

_ "They seem oddly comfortable… Are they fashionable?" _

_ "I suppose. I believe teenagers still use them." _

_ "I guess they'll work fine then." _

Hermione facial expressions shift throughout my rough recount of the events, there is curious surprise, there is cheeky amusement, there is feral emotion, there is borrowed grief, and by the end there is only a lopsided amused smile and eyes gleaming up at me.

“So what I’m hearing is that you threw a tantrum because you had no appropriate clothes and that this Mr. Rubio is an angel for putting up with you?”

Indignantly, I cross my arms in front of my chest. - “I don’t know what an angel is, but I did not throw a tantrum. Pansy Parkinson does not throw tantrums.”

“Sure you don’t, princess.” - I have half a mind to realize the pet name is meant as another jab, but it does little to quiet the sudden lurch of my heart forcefully against my fragile ribs. 

\--------

With as much discretion as possible, we make our way through wizard's terrain into the foreign world of muggles. 

It's an act of blind trust. Letting myself be led by this girl's hand, her bony, nimble fingers, my last landline connecting me to somewhat stable ground. As we navigated the throngs of unfamiliar faces and eerie appearances, each passing stranger sunk me further out of my depth. My eyes are lighting quick, darting from side to side with rampant, uncovered urgency, struggling to register and catalogue as much as possible of this new world. The visuals, the sounds, the smells: a punishing assault on all my senses. Every cell of my body vibrating and quivering with curious excitement and gripping fear alike. A loud bang to my left makes me jump slightly, startled, tightening my hold on Hermione’s hand reflexively.

Her eyes turn towards me in response and immediately I try to mask my uneasiness, summoning the fabricated confidence I had kept on stock every day of my life. But the corners of her eyes softened and she smiled at me reassuringly and I knew I had failed. She could see right through my poorly constructed facade.

In my moment, her arms linked through mine and she stood by my side instead of slightly in front of me. The ghost of her lips on my ear sent shivers down my spine, and I had to fight the reflex of jumping away, fraught from the close proximity in such a public setting. But the easiness her voice carried settled around me like a heavy wool blanket, protective and warm. 

"It's okay to feel a little overwhelmed, this city can be a lot. But I'm here, by your side, and I'm not letting go. So you don't have to worry, I got you."

My heart hiccups in my chest, the swarm of emotions rendering me speechless and capable of little more than a mouthed "thank you" and the motor ability to place my hand above her arm to anchor myself to her. 

  
  


**Hermione’s POV**

Pansy’s eyes are wide, terror so evident in her features that it becomes almost comical. Two remarkably loud passerbys stroll by us, their boisterous laugh mixed with the sound of the tube arriving underneath our feet startles Pansy, making her jump slightly. I have to stifle a laugh, a half-hearted attempt to disguise my absolute delight at the situation.

The disgruntled noise of protest she lets out as the tube screeches to a stop in front of us undoes me, making me nearly topple off with laughter, no longer able to control myself.

"You expect me to get into that?! Do you wish me to willingly step into my own murder?"

"Don't be ridiculous. This is just the tube, it won't arm you."

"Just the tube!", her voice is uncharacteristically high pitched, "It is a metal cylinder, cramped and filled with strangers. And it travels at clearly unsafe speeds. And it's probably brimming with germs!" 

"Oh come on, you git. Just get in before we miss it."

Pansy avoids touching anything in sight apart from me, clinging to my arm during the entire trip as if I am her last life line, and maybe I am a semblance of that. The last bit of familiarity amidst all this unknown. She only lets go when we are finally on the street again and as I find myself immediately missing the contact, I find that, in reality, I would not mind at all having her cling to me every other day. 

Even if it is wickedly delightful seeing Pansy Parkinson so out of sorts in the middle of the muggle world, I find myself amazed at how she is trying. Discomfort is so evident in her features and her movements, but here she is, in the core of a world she knows nothing about, a world that has been painted to her with prejudiced colours, that as been the personification of everything she should hate and avoid. And here she is. All to come be with me. Even her attire shows a considerable effort, the clothes a far cry from the usual wizard's style; no leather corset, no luxurious robes, a recognisable, commendable attempt at blending in.

\-------

We arrive to my door and the nerves I had nearly forgotten about come flaring up as I bring us to a halt in front of the greyish surface.

The last barrier between her and my world. I falter, my movements hesitant, my hand trembling when I get close to the door. 

The decision to invite her to my house, the subsequent and unsaid official invite to my life, was a rash impulse. A 20 seconds of insane courage sort of decision. Ever since sending the owl I had not allowed myself to dwell on the implications of it extensively. First shadowing it with the fear of her rejection, then, after the fast arriving confirmation owl scribbled down in a messy, hurried calligraphy, as if the sender could not wait to send it, I tried to quench the worries with the unbridled enthusiasm I was feeling and with a more avid presence close to my parents, having long and challenging debates with them to keep my mind otherwise occupied.

As expected, it had not worked quite as I wished. 

The holidays were a too slow sequence of nights plagued with insomnia, wearing down my mattress with tossing and turning. The few sleeping moments fast interrupted by the same dreams I fought to keep in the darkness when awake. But those things, as terrible as they were, were also marvellous. The gripping anticipation of the arriving moment, already being able to taste her in my mouth, fingers twitching, aching to feel her skin underneath. The delicious shiver traveling through my spine as I remember how it was all those times, as I picture how it is going to be, this time. 

The unpleasantness came from the nagging question tucked in a far corner of my mind. A quivering quiet voice whose echo would grow as the hours trickled by, resonating in the walls of my cranium, ricocheting around until the moment it could not be ignored. And the moment was now. 

Was I about to commit the most monumental mistake of my life? Bringing her, a Slytherin, my reformed (I hoped) bully and the daughter of avid blood supremacists and dark lord supporters into my muggle house? 

I might be bringing my own executioner to my own slaughter. Metaphorical or not. Might be giving away the location of my safe harbour, might be placing my parents in harm's' way. And all for a misguided sense of trust, a feeling that she would not take advantage of this information to bring me devastation and pain. And all for the burning desire of having her body encompass mine, her lips setting my soul on fire. 

I felt Pansy shift behind me, probably wondering what was the source of this hold up. The small movement urged me to decided, to swallow my questions and insecurities and push for one last act of recklessness. I had brought her all this way already, showed her to my front door. She had the tools to hurt me if she so desired. So might as well get through with it, the promise of what might come already making my hands tremble for a completely different reason. 

I walked her through the living room, unsure of how to proceed. She walked slowly, head high, eyes wondering. Something catches her attention and she stops in front of the big picture of the three of us that hangs in opposite to the fireplace, her eyes fixated on the unmoving image. There I am all bushy wild hair and toothy smile in all the glory of my 10 years old self, a few months before I went to Hogwarts, my mother is crouching down, her smiling face in my shoulder and her arms around me, my dad is also slightly squatting, one of his hands draped over my mother's shoulder, the other stretched out in front of him, a dorky thumbs up pointed right at the camera. It was taken in an unusually warm Easter, when my parents took me to the museum of natural history and I made them stay the entire day, refusing to leave while there was still things to see and to learn. The fondness of that memory is rivaled with a more bitter one, one of filthy names and feelings of not being enough, not being adequate. Of insults directed at me hair, at my smile, at my blood. One of her mouth forming around those words. 

Before the bitterness poisons me I see Pansy smile softly, a tad of sadness and regret in her eyes, and then her lips wrapping delicately around new words, "You have your mothers eyes."

I'm the same instant a breath of relief disentangle itself from the confines of my chest. It comes out shallow and shy, pulling in string my tentative words, all pushed out in the same breath.

"I'm really glad you're here."

They catch Pansy's attention, finally pulling her away from her close inspection of our family portrait.

"Me too." - I wonder if she is as nervous as I feel. And the way she can't quite meet my eyes and the way her cheeks are tainted a shy shade of pink made me think that, perhaps, she is. - "I was really surprised when you invited me. I wasn’t expecting it."

"Neither was I, honestly." - she eyes me curiously at the admission and I continue, haphazardly trying to convey an explanation. - "It was sort of an impulsive decision."

"I might not be a doctorate in the matters of Hermione Granger, but that seems a tad out of character."

I laugh - "You could say that. "

"But I've found myself more prone to out of character actions whenever you're concerned, for some reason. So maybe, it is perfectly aligned with the person you make me be."

The smile plastered on her lips doesn't falter for a second, not even as she says - "Well, I like her."

"I do too." - I whisper back.

“I have a question though.” - she pauses, and then points to the picture she was previously studying - “Why on Salazar isn’t it moving?”

That prompts a lengthy explanation regarding the science of unmoving pictures, a conversation that somewhat migrates to tv and the cinematographic arts. This subject lights up a fuse of curiosity in the young pureblood witch, a curiosity outstandingy visible as she had stood bewildered looking at the trashy afternoon tv show being displayed in the magic metallic box, as she took to calling it.

No matter how adorable it was to see this excited, almost child-like side to Pansy, I started to get slightly impatient. I had most definitely not anticipated spending the few precious hours I had with her watching the telly. Besides, we hadn’t even kissed yet and my entire body yearned for a closer proximity.

After some convincing, I finally convinced her to direct her attention towards me instead of the coloured screen and, not about to let the opportunity pass, I dragged her to my room with no hesitance.

In my room her eyes dart around, absorbing all that surrounds her, and I stand self-conscious of every detail, every book, every colour, every photo. The anxiousness I had felt when I first allowed her inside my home returning full-force. 

"Wow.", it seems to slip out without her meaning to, the interjection hangs in the air, falling between us light as a feather as I wait for her to elaborate. 

"It is just so you. This room," - she turns to me then - "it has Hermione written all over it."

I frown, not sure if that is a good thing.

"It feels like I'm engulfed by you. I adore it."

Warmth erupts within and I feel my insecurities melt away. My room is rather small, so it takes me only two short steps to stand in front of her. 

"I really want to kiss you right now." 

I don't feel this thought tip-toeing towards my mouth, escaping and fleeing to stretch her smile wide, it is a blown whisper before I even register its’ existence. 

She stares me down, crooked head and sheepish smile, "You should then, you definitely should."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you very soon.


	17. there is a riot in my blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!! - This chapter is E rated for sexy scenes!! Consider yourselves warned and proceed at your own risk ahah
> 
> Hey!! So I figured since you guys waited so long for me to updated, the least I could do was give you this chapter as fast as possible! I've been on vacation for this week and since we can't really go anywhere because of Covid I was able to do a bit of writing. I'm not that comfortable with my hability to write smut, so please be gentle.

**17th Chapter - there is a riot in my blood**

**Hermione’s POV**

That moment to the following, when her eyes are twinkling at me, an invitation in them, and then when my lips are pressed against hers, my hands finding purchase in the nape of her neck, have no dividing line. They come in quick succession, tied together almost, and I can't tell how we went from one to the other, I can't tell if they're not the same. I can't tell if there is any other moment besides this one.

We kiss lazily for a while, standing together in the middle of the room, arms around each other. There is a calmness in the way our lips part and meet again, our instincts not shouting for us to grasp and devour and satiate this hunger. There is the serenity of knowing we have time now. 

The progression from where we stand until my bed is natural, first we find ourselves sitting side by side, but fast transition to a horizontal position due to the awkward position sitting down offers, shoes coming off somewhere along the way. I am not sure who is responsible for how we now lay, if it was her initiative, if it was mine, if it was both of us pushing and pulling in equal measure. I am mostly laying in my back, my right side taking most of my weight as I lean over myself. Pansy is propped up in her elbow, part of her body hovering above me. My left hand falls on her hip, and as if to restore balance to the universe, or to her (both these concepts undistinguishable at the time) I pull her body towards mine. 

A careful balanced thread, that is what we are tip-toeing around. And that's the final opening note that gives place to the swell of the melody, her thigh nudging between mine, her body pressing fully against the outline of my body.

A new sort of desperation creeps from the depths of both of us, and in a moment we are kissing with a renewed hungry purpose. There is a riot in my blood, it simmers and boils in full bloom to the surface of my skin, where it prickles and clamours her name, unrelenting. It’s a feverish sort of desire; and in my clouded brain the idea arises, this must be how fire was invented: two bodies coming together in a uncontrollable blaze of passion. 

My hands find a home in the curve of her hips, gripping, anchoring. Eventually they fall to cup her bottom. A groan tumbles from Pansy's lips to my lips accompanying the sharp movement of her hips and I use the memento to pull her closer. Her thigh comes in contact with my center, and I am burning. We are both wearing pants, but even through the double layer of clothes, the pressure shoots through me, an eruption of pleasure from my roaring veins that has me whimpering along with her. 

We fall into a rhythm: kissing, pushing and pulling against one another, the practiced dance of the waves against the shore. The movements in a crescendo that foretells the rising of the tide. My hands roam over her body, twitching for further access to her skin. Perhaps it is the oxymoron of feeling like I might simultaneously combust and drown engulfed in a tidal wave of our heat, her taste, but I am feeling bolder than I have ever been before, and so I find my hands at the bottom of her sweater, tugging, indicating how I want the offending item off of my way.

"Pansy...", she does not stop nipping at my neck yet, "Off. Take this off."

She pulls away and I am greeted first by a sly smirk and afterwards with the sight of her bra clad breasts. I try and fail to plaster a subtle look on my features, however my eyes betray the awe that overcomes me, so am sure.

"Like what you see, do you?", Pansy's trademark insufferable smirk is staring me down, and I just want to kiss it off her.

I sit up to meet her, surprising her momentarily. My arms surround her waist and I murmur a muffled “very much” against the delicate skin of her neck. Slow, but purposeful nips around her pressure point seem to unlock an unholy string of moans from Pansy’s tight lips, smirk effectively ripped off in the process.

She revels in my ministrations for a few minutes, hands tangling in my air, making an even unrulier mess of my curls. I can’t bring myself to care, not while my mouth is making a home in the crevice beneath her jaw. A firm tug of my hair deviates my attention towards her face. Cheeks flushed, mouth parted, pupils dilated, she looks down at me. 

"I want to see you too." 

And as if by magic, my sweatshirt vanishes, followed by my bra that Pansy makes quick work of. 

My naked back collides with the mattress again. The power balance switchs again, her mouth latching on to my breasts. The first flick of her tongue over my nipple feels like electricity, sparks igniting every inch of my skin. I have half a mind amidst the heat to be embarrassed at how close I am without any direct contact, already tasting the edge on my tongue; sharp, sweet and tragically near. 

My hands are grasping at her bicep and at the nape of her neck; one of her arms is keeping her upright, her other hand is caressing my hip, softly trailing my waistband. It is a silent question; one I'm eager to answer. So, when her finger catches on my pant's button, the "yes" that leaves my lips is urgent and hushed. It tastes more like a plea than a guarantee of consent. And with the desperation that seethes from my very core, I believe it is.

There is no hesitancy as she slides the fabric down my legs, caressing the skin along the way. Realization hits when I find myself almost fully exposed, only one last barrier before I'm baring myself to her, that Pansy's wearing too many clothes still, that it feels unbalanced somehow. She is quick to understand the flash of insecurity in my eyes and soon she is also standing above me in just her underwear. 

She stops, hovering above me. The lines of her face, before hard, incisive and decided, now soften as she stares at me, adoration pouring from her orbs into her words.

"You're gorgeous.", she says, so sweet, so soft, "So bloody gorgeous."

Her tone undresses me more than physically possible, honey sweet words tracing over my skin like a whispered spring breeze, and I shiver amidst the flames.

There is only one flimsy barrier between my center and her, that I’m sure is doing nothing to hide my enthusiasm. I’m so embarrassingly wet, it must be leaving a trail in her thigh, and still, I can not stop myself from moving ever more urgently. I can not find any spare forces to be embarrassed.

“Merlin, Hermione…”, her voice is deep, cracking, “I can… I can feel you.”

A deep groan cuts off her sentence as I flex my thigh muscles, bringing it to her center. We are both panting in sintony, an orchestra of breathy moans and whimpers. I grow frustrated with the fabric still separating us, the need to feel her completely overcoming everything else.

“Pansy, take them - fuck - take them off.”

She growls, animalistic, just as desperate as I am, and nearly rips my knickers off of me. Hers soon following.

“Fuck, Merlin.” - I feel her heat, her wetness now all over my leg too.

“Can I -”, she struggles to form words in the middle of heavy breathing, “Can I please touch you?”

“Oh Merlin.”, I gasp for breath, only now realizing how much I need her to touch me, how I feel like I might perish if she doesn’t, “Please do. I need you.” 

A need born from the very fabric of my bones. 

Anticipation grips the air, dense and dripping, the rush of blood pulsing through my veins drowning everything else, getting louder as her hand strums through my torso getting closer and closer to her destination. She stills, just above the strip of hair that adorns my most private part, and I have to bite down the noise of protest that threatens to slip out. 

“I never…”, her tone is small, nervous, and I see shadows of insecurity darkening the green pools of her eyes, “I've never done this before. I don’t know how…”

Everything slows down for a moment, the heat and urgency, a tidal wave suspended, in pause; the incendio tamed into a simmer - softness, understanding, affection tugging at the corners of my heart. My blood has been screaming for this girl, and now it whispers, it melts. She whom I've known as so harsh and cold, is now standing above me so vulnerable and fragile. Eyes open, all walls down to the ground. 

She is mirroring how I feel, chest cavity ajar; heart offering itself up for the taking.

I look to reassure her that we are together in the same boat, braving the same storm, exploring the same unknown and so my hand comes to rest on top of hers, squeezing lightly, “Neither have I. We’ll figure it out together.”, slowly I direct her to where I need her most, and try to put on my bravest, most reassuring smile, “Just do what feels right.”

Her face blossoms into a genuine smile, and her fingers untangle from mine, venture to explore. The touch is tentative at first, exploratory. But as she dips between my folds, our moans mix in the small space that exists between our mouths. 

"You're so freaking wet - Merlin, I -", she is still straddling my leg and as her voice drips arousal, her thighs squeeze around mine, chasing some kind of friction. 

She seems to be getting acquainted with the feeling of touching me for a bit, just testing out the waters, before the tip of her finger flicks over my clit and suddenly, a sequence of tiny explosions make my body feel like an open field on a carnival night, the sky behind my eyelids littered with fireworks. The buck of my hips and high-pitched whimper don't go unnoticed and she focus all of her attention on the small bundle of nerves, circling, flicking up and down, making me go insane.  _ I could come like this, _ I think. Or more precisely, I am nearly about to. I feel it closing in on me; all my body is pressure, contracted around itself, close to combustion. But there is something else I want, something I need before it happens, something my walls clenching around emptiness won't let me forget. 

"Pansy -", my voices is cracking around her name, littel a broken prayer "I - fuck- please," - she eyes me curiously, eyebrows shooting up, daring me to complete my request, "Inside." 

It is a plea wrapped up in a whimper. Almost swallowed by my moans, so that I am unsure she heard it. 

"Fuck.", she swears and now I know she did. 

Her finger leaves my clit to trail down and I whine at the loss of direct stimulation, until she starts circling my entrance and I am catapulted right back to the edge of pleasure.

"Are you sure?", she is gentle, even if her erratically heaving chest indicates that she is as far gone as I am. I nood frantically, eyes locked into hers, not wanting to leave any doubt in the air. 

She enters me slowly with one finger, and it feels so different than any time I did it to myself. So much more sensitive, every nerve ending buzzing; all feeling in my body starting in the edge of her fingertips, from there to gripping fingers, my contracting toes, my arching back.

Building a slow rhythm at first, she keeps glancing into my eyes inquisitive, making sure I am okay. I might have thought about how endearing it was, if I was capable of any coherent thought process. Soon enough she is pushing in and out, curling her finger slightly as she backs off, fucking me throughout. I am moaning wantonly, hips bucking wildly, chasing after her fingers whenever they leave. No regard for any embarrassment or modesty, fully consumed by desire, passion and pleasure. 

All the while Pansy's hips are humping my leg, discreetly at first, almost non-intentional, but with more fervour as it goes by. She brings her thumb to flick at my clit and all the sensations multiply rapidly. My flesh is not my own anymore, I’m at the mercy of her fingertips.

I feel so close, walking around the edge, daring to jump, dipping my feet over it. Only one last push away.

"I'm - close.", I pant, "So - fucking - close." 

"Come for me, Hermione." - her words push me over and I am falling - flying. 

Every single muscle in my body seizes up at once, hips trashing, moans ripping through my throat uncontrollably. The apex of my rioting blood cells, a blind chant of her name, the final spark tying together every small explosion, unleashing a full fledged incendio. They are unforgiving, the flames. And I’m unrepenting. They suck the oxygen straight from my lungs, holding my trachea hostage in the ruthless grasp of their tight fist. It feels exactly as they call it, a dramatic epilogue for  _ la petit mort _ . And oh, I’m a willing victim. I’ll be a willing victim of her, everytime.

Wave after wave violently hitting against the shore. She strokes me while I come down, hovering above the ground, into a soft landing. Afterwards, it takes me a moment to regain consciousness. As if she drained the life out of me, and then gave right back, but lighter, brighter. The first feeling that stricks me is a type of peace I never tasted before, right at the tip of my tongue. My existence feels weightless. As if this moment alone brought me solace for all my troubles.

"Wow." 

"Wow seems about right." - her tone isn't teasing, if anything she sounds as dazed as I am. 

**Pansy's POV**

If I thought I had tasted heaven before, then the words felt flat to describe the ethereal bliss that came with watching her full lips shocking around a moan, her eyes rolling back as she came undone underneath me. And to know my hands had been wick, my lips the spark; to be caught in the among the flames never felt like such a blessing.

"Merlin Pansy, that was fantastic. Everything I could've dreamed of pales in comparison."

Her praise unleashes a pride in my chest that wants to battle and overthrow every filling of self commiseration that ever wrecked havoc in my bones. It inflates and I float further.

"Oh, you thought about it before, did you? How frequently, if I may ask, do you think of me and you involved in carnal passion?" - I can't resist a bit of cheeky teasing.

The slight shade of crimson that adorned her still heaving chest darkens considerably, "Oh shush it.", and it is so endearing how she becomes so timid with words when before profanities fell from her lips and she did not seem to mind.

I laugh and nuzzle her nose with mine.

"I'm just asking because I too have thought about it.", memories of those times make the arousal in my gut spark again, that before was momentarily quieted by the overwhelming feeling of adoration for this precious being, and I remember that my clit is still throbbing against her leg, "A great number of times." 

Now that desire is brought to the forefront of my attention, I struggle to stay still again, subtly pushing against her. She notices, of course she does, and a mischievous grin etches itself on her face. 

“Someone’s needy, uh?”, it’s my turn to blush, a small moan escaping me in response, “I’ll take care of you.”

Her thumb dips into my hip bone, drawing circles along it whilst her other hand grabs my neck, bringing my mouth back to hers. We kiss slowly at first, while I’m enforcing every restraint I possess in order to rein in my desire to devour her whole and in turn beg to be devoured by her. Salazar, how I want to present every part of me as an offering and beg her to have no mercy as she takes me. 

Thankfully, Hermione doesn’t appear to be interested in slow. Soon enough her hand finds a home amidst my legs, foregoing exploration and flicking against my clit. I mewl into her lips, a weakness seizing my muscles, my thighs trembling around her. And as she continues, now circling my bundle of nerves, our kisses get sloppier. I take most of the fault, breath growing uneven and concentration slipping as pleasure clouds my senses further and further, until I’m blindly chasing the white light of release and the only reality I recognise is Hermione.

The depth growing in the pit of my stomach is a blaring siren, a clear sign I am not going to last long. Good manners seem not to escape me even in the throws of passion and so, I issue a fair warning. Amidst my moans and pants, I say, “I’m not - I’m not going to last.”, I can feel her smirk against my lips, “Merlin - fuck.”

“I don’t want you to last. Want to make you feel good.”, she whispers against my lips and I forgo any attempt on trying to kiss her properly, the mismatched symphony of moans that fall from my mouth making it impossible to continue. So her mouth moves to trail over the exposed skin of my neck, what I assume to be praises muffled against the skin.

I am moaning in earnest now, hips bucking with abandon. My arms are trembling, struggling to hold my weight and keep me from collapsing and crushing her. This is what spontaneous combustion feels like, a fire burning you from the inside out, with no regard for any warning signs, just a furious blaze destroying everything in its’ path, making you want, beg to burst into flames. 

Her lips close around my pulse pont, sucking gently. And that hurls me over the edge. I am catapulted with such force over it that I lose all notion of what is real and what is not. And this, the way my body convulses around her, can not be anything but the most powerful sort of magic. 

Finally my members give out and boneless, I collapse half on top of her, trying to catch my breath and some semblance of reality along with it.

Breathless giggles escape through the mess of my hair that fell on top of Hermione’s face and I can feel her chest reverberating against mine. Intrigued, I roll off of her, and crook my head to the side, eyeing her curiously. 

“I was just thinking about how… unlikely, this situation would have appeared a year ago.”, a pang of fear grips my heart for a moment. It takes only a split of a second for the wave of panic to appear on the horizon, the taste of lead tainting the corners of my mouth. I try not to react too harshly.

“Do you regret it?”, the tremble in my voice betrays the fear, and Hermione turns abruptly towards me. 

“Merlin no!”, she brings her hand to tuck the errant strays of hair from my check, sweeping her thumb over the skin, her touch ever so delicate, “I don’t regret it at all, Pans.”

Only one nickname falling from her lips and my heart is restarted, beating in all its’ fury. I don’t try to search for an answer, the only appropriate language at the time seems to be bringing her lips to meet mine halfway. 

The hand that was cupping my cheek previously starts to wander down my body, naughty and bold. Gunpowder relighting a path of fire in my cooling skin. She has nearly reached her destination when she whispers through the smirk currently pressed against my lips, “I’m not quite done with you yet.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hope you didn't find it complete rubbish and see you soon!


End file.
